


Possession

by JenniferNapier



Series: Liberation [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Blackmail, Broken Promises, Childhood Memories, Death, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hostage Situations, Karma - Freeform, Lies, Martin Escaped, Martin Escapes, Martin is free, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Near Death, Past, Promises, Slow Build, Texting, Thriller, Trust, Trust Issues, Truth, Unhealthy Relationships, Valentine's Day, and, emojis, some - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 58,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23853289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier
Summary: Malcolm is on the hunt to catch two new murderers. Meanwhile, he struggles to maintain control over the taxing relationship he has with his liberated father. Despite his best efforts to prevent a sense of trust and fondness from growing between them, it grows anyway. Ultimately, Malcolm must stop Dr. Whitly from breaking a very important promise --the promise that he will not kill.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Jessica Whitly, Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Paul Lazar | John Watkins, Mr. David | Martin Whitly's Guard & Malcolm Bright, Mr. David | Martin Whitly's Guard & Martin Whitly, Paul Lazar | John Watkins & Martin Whitly
Series: Liberation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718875
Comments: 94
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you are a new reader, welcome! This is Part 2 of the 'Liberation' series. ***PLEASE read Part 1, 'Deprivation,' before reading this fic.*** I promise it will make SO much more sense and provide even greater impact on you as a reader, and I intended for this to be read as a sequel.

“Here’s what we know so far.”

A pointing stick smacked against a printed image of The Surgeon. The photograph was magnetically adhered to the white board of the NYPD conference room and circled with red ink from an Expo marker.

“Doctor Martin Whitly was last seen at Saint Williams Memorial Hospital at six forty-seven A.M. on the third.”

The pointing stick moved to four other photographs of different men, all crossed out with red ink from an Expo marker. “He was meant to be escorted straight back to Claremont Psychiatric by Mark Freeman, Jerry Stevens, Lance Ritter, and Matt Rochester. But that didn’t happen.”

The pointing stick slid over to a map of Manhattan, on which another small red X was marked. “The transport van was found off Strand and Burmell, under Wendell Pass. The vehicle was abandoned, save for two bodies.”

Lieutenant McLeod directed the stick back to the photographs of the Claremont guards, addressing the room of police officers with a booming voice fit for a U.S. Marine Corps briefing. “Mister Freeman and Mister Stevens. Cause of death; carbon monoxide poisoning.”

Malcolm Bright hovered in the back of the conference room, listening with his arms folded and his eyes downward. At some point early in the briefing, Detective Powell and Detective Tarmel had snuck over to stand beside him, because it was clear that nobody else would.

“Nine hours later, Mister Ritter and Mister Rochester’s bodies were found in a dumpster at Claremont. Forensics determined they were also murdered by carbon monoxide poisoning, but their uniforms and badges were missing and their time of death antedated that which Doctor Whitly was last seen.”

The two detectives still bore some scrapes and scratches. JT had a few stitches on his elbow and Dani had a sizable bruise on her head, though she tried to hide it by wearing her hair down. Despite her effort, it was still visible in her hairline above her forehead.

“Which gives us reason to believe that two unknown suspects posed as Mister Ritter and Mister Rochester to pick up Doctor Whitly from Saint Williams, and therefore are responsible not only for a quadruple homicide, but also a kidnapping.”

Malcolm’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

It wasn't his smartphone. It was his _other_ phone.

The profiler ignored the lingering sensation of the vibration. Now was not the time to check the text.

“Problem is, we have _no idea_ who these two mystery men are,” Lieutenant McLeod continued. “And we have _no idea_ where Doctor Whitly is.”

_Buzz._

Malcolm shifted his stance and slyly checked around himself to see if anyone else had heard the vibrations from his pocket. If they did, they ignored it --except JT, who gave him a brief look. It turned into a double take as the phone buzzed yet again.

_Buzz._

Malcolm sighed to himself. He couldn't take the device out to silence it. People would see that it was an obvious burner phone and that would attract questions. Questions he couldn’t afford to attract --even if they wouldn’t be asked directly to his face. The profiler was just glad that it was only a few pesky texts, and not a pestering call.

_Buzz._

Now, Dani hovered a glance his way. Malcolm kept his gaze ahead, trying to appear as if he was paying attention to the briefing, especially now that it was starting to sound like more of a public humiliation.

“We _thought,_ for a brief, unverified, _reckless_ moment that Bruce and Trevor Jenks fit the profile, which _Mister Bright_ was quick to provide after interrogating one of Doctor Whitly’s old colleagues, John Watkins.” Lieutenant McLeod caught his gaze for a moment, and Malcolm attempted to give him some sort of an apologetic, sheepish smile. It was half-hearted, since he was distracted by another harsh buzz in his pocket.

_Buzz._

Luckily, Lieutenant McLeod was too far away to hear the vibrations. After tossing the profiler a glare that was unrelated to the disruption in his pocket, the Lieutenant continued with his group lecture. “Despite the _highly_ unprofessional manner in which the investigation was carried out, the case led us to a junkyard in Orange County, where--” he stopped for a moment, took a solemn breath, then continued. “Where six of our officers met their death with a car bomb.”

_Buzz._

The flip phone was vibrating so frequently in Malcolm’s pocket, it was actually worse than getting a call, because the buzzes kept coming. One after another, at varying intervals. Malcolm was somewhat used to it, to an extent, because his mother texted in the same way. Sentence by sentence, each sent in their own message. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that his father texted in the same excruciatingly irritating manner, but this was ridiculous.

_Buzz._

JT murmured, “Dude.”

“Sorry,” Malcolm whispered, unfolding his arms to hold his wrist in front of himself. He tried to clandestinely press his forearm down over the phone in his pocket. It didn’t help muffle the sound. In fact, it only gave it something to make _more_ noise against. 

Malcolm was trapped. He couldn't exactly excuse himself from the conference room. Lieutenant McLeod already _clearly_ disliked him.

“The Jenks brothers have been dead for a decade. Shot and killed in an act of gang violence in 2010.”

_Buzz._

Malcolm started to sweat. He couldn’t help but wonder if the reason for all those texts was because there was some sort of emergency that demanded his attention. The question of what exactly _qualified_ as an emergency was all the more stress-inducing. His mind started to run wild with potential reasons for the relentless texts.

“The bomb in the junkyard was likely prepared with the intent of harming our officers, but we are unable to reconnect with Mister Watkins, nor verify that he purposefully sent our men into a deadly trap because we have no record of the conversation between him and Mister Bright.”

_Buzz._

Malcolm felt quite a few pairs of eyes on him, though most of them were sideways glances.

Another officer raised their voice to ask, “Lieutenant McLeod, why are we unable to reconnect with Mister--?”

“Mister Watkins is tightly guarded behind the impenetrable wall of his lawyer,” Lieutenant McLeod answered with a great sigh. “That wall will continue to be firmly in place well into his probation, which begins in one week.”

There was a palpable unhappiness in the room. The Junkyard Killer’s quick and efficient release was impressive in all the worst ways, but at least the buzzing in Malcolm’s pocket had stopped. The profiler tried to relax.

“So, we are back to square _zero._ No leads. No suspects. Nothing.” Lieutenant McLeod paced at the front of the room, drilling his sharp blue-eyed gaze into every officer in the room. “But as long as I am in charge of this precinct, _nobody_ will rest until these two mystery men _\--and_ Doctor Whitly-- are found. Is that understood?”

“Give me a ‘Yes sir!’” he demanded in military fashion, repeating, _“Is that understood?”_

“Yes sir,” the room echoed.

 _“Again!”_ he threw up one arm.

 _“Yes sir!”_ the room chanted louder.

“That’s more like it,” he barked. His icy glare darted to the young man in the back of the room. “Mr. Bright.”

Malcolm looked up.

“I wanna hear it from you, too, pal.”

Malcolm forced a false, bitter smile on his face and answered with a strong yet obedient, “Yes sir.”

Lieutenant McLeod nodded. His head continued to bob as he took in the sight of the group once again. In conclusion, he grumbled, “If God is on our side, Martin Whitly is dead, and we’ll never see or hear from him again.”

Malcolm returned his eyes to the floor and massaged his wrist.

 _Buzz_. 

It took everything Malcolm had in himself not to either sigh in frustration or smirk with a twisted sense of humor, both of which were equally difficult to resist.

The room livened with murmurs as the meeting adjourned. Malcolm was eager to escape the crowded space so he could check his texts, but he also didn’t want it to look like what the new lieutenant said had burrowed under his skin. It _hadn’t._

Luckily, JT and Dani also seemed eager to exit the room, and upon their invitation and lead, he followed them out.

* * *

In the hall, JT turned to the two of them and made a face. “Well, I hope Lieutenant Arroyo recovers quickly. Or this is gonna be a _loooong_ couple a weeks.”

“Last I heard, he should be out by next Friday,” Dani updated them, also making a face, though hers was more optimistic. “Just in time for Valentine’s Day.” She glanced at Malcolm, who was only partially listening. Perhaps with a hint of disappointment that went unnoticed by both men, she glanced back at JT and added, “But he won’t be back at work until the Monday after, at the soonest.”

JT didn’t seem consoled. He scoffed and shook his head. “I don’t know if I can take a week and a half of working under that guy. I’m gonna go _deaf.”_

Malcolm clapped one hand over his pocket as his phone buzzed yet again, then excused himself with a stressed smile. “I better check on, uh…”

“Yeah.” Dani winced a concerned look at him, then his pocket. “That sounds urgent.”

The profiler hurried off, only bringing out the flip phone when he was seated safely in the privacy of an unassigned cubicle on the other side of the room.

His heart knocked against his ribs like it was demanding to be let out of a cage. Nearly two dozen unread messages. Jesus Christ. Tapping the button pads on the small Nokia, he opened the conversation to learn--

His father had discovered emojis.

The breath that Malcolm had been holding in was released in a small sigh of agitation mixed with relief. He rolled his eyes and rested his head in one hand, tapping the ‘up’ arrow to look through the messages. 

Martin had sent each emoji individually -- either because he did not know he could send them all strung together in one message, or because he was deliberately being as _inconvenient_ and _annoying_ as humanly possible, which was far more likely.

Malcolm furrowed his brow as he tapped the ‘down’ arrow to scroll back through the list of emojis, wondering what on Earth his father was trying to convey with them. They seemed to be picked at random, all drastically obscure and unordinary. A bed. A sun. A hat. A rat. A car. A smiley face with sunglasses. A musical note. A construction worker, and many more.

The profiler pressed away at the keypad with both thumbs. _Alt, slash, slash, slash. Send._

‘???’

He waited for his father’s reply, briefly glancing up and around himself to ensure no one was heading his way. As expected, no one was. He was not the office favorite lately.

The phone buzzed once to notify him of a reply.

‘I'm telling you about my day using the icons.’

With an unenthusiastic expression, Malcolm typed back, ‘They’re called emojis.’ _Send._

_Buzz._

‘They’re very useful.’

Malcolm shook his head, believing this whole ordeal to be completely ludicrous. He thought that receiving calls from Claremont had been bad. Now, he was stuck with this.

Wait a minute.

Malcolm glared at the little phone and read over the emojis again, now knowing what story they told. He leaned forward in his chair, placing both elbows on the desk and furiously typing, ‘What's the blood, syringe, skull, and chains mean?’ _Send._

He took a breath to try and calm his thumping heart, but then typed some more, ‘Did you kill someone?’ _Send._

_Buzz._

‘No, I just like those ones.’

Malcolm closed his eyes and sighed before closing the phone, placing it on the desk, and then rubbing his hands over his face. During his internal lamenting, his phone buzzed twice.

The profiler growled to himself and snatched the phone again. The two messages read;

‘They make me feel’

_(Emoji of a smiley face with heart eyes.)_

A new buzz brought a third message.

‘Or maybe this one.’

A fourth buzz.

_(Emoji of a smiley face with three hearts.)_

“Oh my God,” Malcolm groaned quietly. This was going to drive him insane.

_Buzz._

‘But also this one.’

_Buzz._

_(Emoji of a smiling devil.)_

‘Stop,’ Malcolm sent. His father did not stop, and Malcolm desperately forced his phone into silent mode so the vibrations would cease.

‘This is like what they used to do in therapy,’ his father rambled in text. ‘They had little cards with faces on them and we were supposed to say which ones we felt during certain circumstances.’

‘Please stop,’ Malcolm repeated.

Four texts followed, one after another.

‘It made me feel very,’

(Emoji of an unamused smiley face.)

(Emoji of a smiley face with rolling eyes.)

(Emoji of an unamused smiley face.)

‘STOP,’ Malcolm abused the buttons of the Nokia.

There was a substantial pause with no response, but Malcolm knew better than to allow himself to feel relieved. He knew the pause wouldn’t last long, and it didn’t.

His father sent an (emoji of a sad face.)

‘We have GOT to set some ground rules,’ Malcolm texted quickly. ‘Just listen.’

His first rule; ‘No spamming’

‘No what?’

‘Spamming. Don’t spam me,’ the profiler clarified. Apparently, he didn’t clarify well enough.

‘What do you mean spamming? Like _email_ spam? I’m not sending you spam mail. They’re just icons.’

Malcolm winced and typed, ‘You are so old.’

He received an (emoji of an envelope) and then a text that read, ‘I’ve been locked up for twenty years, son,’ and then another text that read, ‘There’s no jail icon??? This is an outrage.’

Malcolm tried to cut in with, ‘Dad, listen.’

‘They have (a water polo emoji) but no _jail_ icon? Who designed these?’

Malcolm laid down the law. ‘You are only allowed to send 3 texts in a row. No more.’

‘Only 3?’

‘You can send long texts,’ Malcolm permitted. ‘That’s completely fine. But please, for the love of God, not a million short texts.’ 

Martin sent an (emoji of a thinking face.)

‘Please,’ Malcolm begged.

Martin sent an (emoji of a thumbs up.)

The profiler took a breath before continuing, ‘I have more rules. Listen.’

Dr. Whitly sent an (emoji of an ear.)

Malcolm’s second rule; ‘No contacting mom or Ainsley.’

‘Got it,’ Dr. Whitly replied. Then, ‘Consider them _dead_ to me.’ He used his third text to send a (skull emoji.)

Malcolm glared at the little screen. ‘Not funny.’

‘It’s a little funny.’

Malcolm’s third rule; ‘Don’t let anyone find you.’

‘Obviously.’

‘No one can know I am in contact with you.’

‘Of course.’

‘When I call or text you, you must immediately answer.’

‘That won’t be a problem at all,’ Dr. Whitly replied, followed by an (emoji of a grinning face.)

Malcolm’s most important rule; ‘You cannot murder.’

‘Already established that.’

Malcolm was determined to make his father understand the unfathomable weight of this rule. ‘You’re going to obey that one,’ he warned. ‘If I find ANY blood on your hands, you are going straight back into a cell.’

‘I already told you that’s not where I’ll be going, Malcolm,’ his father replied. ‘If I get caught again, especially if I have fresh (emoji of a blood droplet) on my hands, I’m headed straight for the (emoji of a chair.)’

‘Or whatever they’ve replaced it with nowadays,’ Dr. Whitly added.

‘Better not kill anyone then!’ Malcolm sent, paired with a (smiley face.)

‘Better not get _caught_ killing anyone,’ The Surgeon corrected with a (winking face.)

Malcolm rubbed his head again. He’d never felt so exhausted sending mere texts.

‘I’m joking.’

‘This isn’t funny.’

‘I think it’s hilarious.’

“God help me,” Malcolm whispered out loud. He jumped in his seat as a voice behind him barked, “God help us _all.”_ The profiler slammed the Nokia shut and whirled around in his chair to see Lieutenant McLeod leaning on the frame of his cubicle. “Lieutenant.” Malcolm held the phone in his lap, both hands wrapped securely around it. “Do you need som--?”

“I need to make sure you understand something, Mister Bright,” Lieutenant McLeod declared with his militaristic tone. He cared little for keeping his voice quiet, and their conversation held zero privacy. _“I'm_ in charge now. Not Lieutenant Arroyo. You’re not going to be able to get away with the _shit_ he lets you get away with. Do you understand that?”

“I do,” Malcolm nodded, attempting to take the scolding with as much dignity, respect, and patience as he could. Still, he couldn’t stop a tight smile from flashing across his face as he shook his head, shrugged, and asked, “Anything else?”

“Yeah. One more thing.” The older man pointed a firm finger in his direction. “You are _irresponsible, inconsiderate, selfish,_ and _arrogant,_ and Lieutenant Arroyo has poor judgement to trust you.”

The only thing in that sentence that irked the profiler was the diss on Gil’s reputation, but all he could do was smile and nod, accepting the lecture.

The older man turned to leave. “As you were.”

Malcolm pursed his lips in thought, knowing he should leave the conversation there. But he didn’t. He gently raised his voice to call, “Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant McLeod turned around with a certain look on his face.

Malcolm smiled at him again. “He trusts me because I have an _unparalleled_ record of finding murderers. And I’m going to find these ones, too. I promise.” It was a confident promise, but also a kind one. One that held as much empathy as it did strength.

Lieutenant McLeod wasn't moved. “Try not to get innocent people killed in the process, this time,” he grumbled before asking with a blatant mockery of the boy’s surname, knowing it was false, “Can you do that, _‘Bright?’”_

Malcolm secretly grit his teeth behind his lips, but he nodded and replied, “Yes, sir.”

With little faith in the profiler, the new lieutenant marched away.

Dani hovered over to Malcolm’s cubicle, watching their boss retreat into Gil’s office. “Wow. He’s really got it out for you.”

Malcolm explained with a sigh, “He blames me for those six officers’ deaths. He was probably close to one of them.” He carelessly tossed one hand in the air beside his head and rotated in his desk chair. “I don't blame him. It _was_ my fault. I should have seen something like that coming.”

“Hey.” Dani lightly glared at him. “Don't.”

“Dani, you don't have to tell me that,” he shook his head, pardoning her from the role of comforter of his feelings or defender of his tattered honor. “I accept what... what happened.” It was nothing good, but, “It's over. It’s done. I can't go back in time.”

“But I _am_ going to catch the person who killed them,” Malcolm testified. “ _And_ the person who killed the four Claremont guards.” He placed his hands back in his lap and looked up at her, perhaps seeing some kind of light at the end of a very dark tunnel in her warm, kind eyes. “I'm going to make this right,” the profiler gave her a small, sad, but genuine smile.

He realized his Nokia was still in his lap. Thank God he’d set it to silent. It would be too obvious if he tried to hide it from her now, but his hands still inched to conceal it, praying she didn’t catch a glimpse of it and ask him about it. Luckily, she didn’t notice the device.

“Speaking of the Claremont guards,” Dani lifted her chin and announced with reverent optimism, “We have a funeral to go to.” Her small, sad, but genuine smile told him that she was entirely aware of how unusual and unfortunate of a date that was.

Malcolm smiled, glad that she was willing to bring him along on her investigation, as they’d arranged earlier. “Right. Let’s go,” he stood up, taking advantage of the movement to slip the small phone in the palm of his hand, and then --when her back was turned-- slip the phone back into his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! If you didn't see or heed my first note and haven't read Part 1; 'Deprivation,' this would be a great time to actually go back and read that fic before continuing with this one. I promise, it will make the experience of reading this fic all the more understandable and meaningful.


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm stood beside Dani on a hill of the cemetery, a short distance away from the crowd who paid their respects to the four caskets waiting to be lowered into the earth. Most of the victims’ families had known each other, and they had agreed to conduct a shared ceremony. It was an efficient way to share the financial cost, share the memories, and share the support among each other. It was also an efficient way for Malcolm and Dani to question the family members of each victim all in one place. Not the most appropriate time to do it, they would admit, but an opportune one.

For now, they simply watched from a distance. Malcolm eyed each and every person in attendance, wondering if the murderer had enough of a connection with the victims to show up. He had to have _some_ connection. At least enough of a connection to know about the logistics of the transport van --to know whose badges and uniforms to steal.

A few other guards from Claremont attended to pay respects to their fallen coworkers. Malcolm caught sight of Mr. David accompanying the family of Mr. Stevens, and the profiler sent him a small smile. Mr. David did not send one back.

Malcolm didn’t blame him. The profiler continued watching the family members and guests. His gaze lingered on one family member in particular. A little boy who placed a bouquet of flowers on a silver casket and then --despite his best efforts to remain strong-- ended up bursting into tears and hugging it.

The profiler tried not to stare, instead forcing his gaze downward and ignoring a twinge of emotion that stabbed through him. It broke his heart to know that these children would have to go on without fathers. It broke his heart to think of all the holidays, the birthdays, the graduations, and other life events that they would experience without them by their side. The empty chairs and the empty beds. The photographs and the ghostly memories that would cling to them --that would cling to everything else in their lives as well. Malcolm knew what these families would endure from this point forward, and it was nothing he wished on anybody.

Strangely, in some twisted way, he thought for a moment that he was fortunate to have only suffered a _partial_ death of his father, and not a whole one. The illusion of the man who he _believed_ his father was had died twenty years ago, but the wolf under the sheep’s wool was still very much alive. Perhaps that erosion of humanity and that reveal of a monster was more tragic than the total death of a person. Malcolm didn’t know which scenario was worse.

He sighed and asked his partner, “You visited Gil recently?”

With her arms folded across her chest, Dani nodded. “Yesterday. They said they still need to monitor him to make sure he didn’t suffer any serious long-term brain damage from the concussion.” She looked over at the profiler. “He just needs to rest for a while.”

With his hands shoved in his overcoat pockets, Malcolm nodded.

“It could have been a lot worse. He’s very lucky,” Dani murmured.

Malcolm continued staring at the grass.

She looked him over, wondering if he’d heard her. Facing him, she expressed, “Gil is alive because of you, you know.” If the profiler was going to blame himself for all of the terrible things that had happened, then he should also give himself credit for the _good_ that had come out of it. Because that _was_ thanks to him.

“If you hadn’t taken him to get medical care, he wouldn’t have made it,” Dani told him, feeling a little guilty herself. She and JT had been planning to wait for the ambulance. It would have been a decision that would have killed their lieutenant.

Malcolm didn’t meet her gaze, and it actually appeared as if what she’d said had unsettled him. The profiler brought his eyes up to scan the mourning family members again. “I’m glad he’s doing alright.”

“And you?”

“I saw him a couple days ago,” Malcolm answered. “But my mom visits him everyday.”

“I meant, ‘are _you_ doing alright?’” Dani clarified, not taking her attention off of him.

Malcolm finally met her gaze, and attempted to throw a tired smile on his face. “Oh. Yeah.”

“You sure? You’ve been a little… uptight.” Dani winced. “More than usual.”

Malcolm exhaled some of his stress by listing some of his mental strains. “Well, I made some _terribly_ wrong choices this week. Gil almost died, ten people _did_ die, _three_ killers are on the loose, soon to be four, and I have _no_ idea where my father is.” The worst part was that those things were only _half_ of what was eating at his mind every minute of every day since that bombing.

“So, yeah. I’m a little uptight,” he admitted with a false smile. He didn’t mean to sound snarky or sarcastic or condescending, but he did anyway. 

Detective Powell forgave him. She didn’t take offense, only appreciating his honesty and commiserating with an empathetic smile. She couldn’t offer much to alleviate his agitation, but she offered what she could. “Well, I'm here if you need anything.”

“Like... a hug,” Dani shrugged, smirking. That was a typical thing to offer, but she knew he wasn't a very physically affectionate person. “Or some ice cream?” she suggested with a smile.

Malcolm snickered gently. It was a sweet, silly, childish thing to offer. “I might take you up on that one,” he grinned jokingly.

“It's a date!” Dani smirked triumphantly, playing along. Both of their grins fizzled out as they realized how strange that word sounded, and they both hoped the other didn’t feel odd about it. Needless to say, it created a bit of an awkward silence between them, until Dani decided to break it with a nervous, “I mean, not like… an _actual_ date.”

Malcolm pitched in, waving his hand and laughing, “Of course, no, I didn’t--”

Dani looked very relieved. “Oh, good!” Maybe too relieved. She tried to force herself to speak with a more casual tone. “Good. Yeah.”

The awkward silence continued as they both worried if they’d just accidentally friend-zoned each other. Malcolm opened his mouth to try to say something, but the funeral ceremony moved into a prayer. He shut his gob and they both respectfully participated --though the detective and the profiler’s thoughts were not at all filled with religious sentiment.

During the prayer, Malcolm massaged his wrist as he held his hands in front of him. He pondered how to let Dani know that if she ever _did_ want to go out on a _date,_ date, he would be fine with that. More than fine with it! But then he thought that _he_ should be the one to ask her out, as was traditionally appropriate. But if she really _wasn't_ interested… _Shit._

 _Shit,_ Dani echoed internally, believing she’d completely ruined the potential for a deeper relationship with Malcolm, and convinced that he would never talk to her about personal things again.

The ceremony ended. The crowd mingled to comfort those that were crying and to place their last touches on the caskets.

“We should…” Dani began, gesturing.

“Yeah. Uh. I’ll take… this area.” Malcom agreed, stepping away to where Mr. Rochester’s family was clumped. Dani scolded herself one last time and then approached Mr. Ritter’s family.

* * *

They politely proceeded with their questionings, though not every family member appreciated their work. Most understood that they were just doing their job, and their job was to bring justice to the victims, which they all wanted. The understanding family members, although emotional, were more than happy to answer whatever they were asked.

Malcolm looked over to spot Mr. David again, and when the profiler’s last question was finished, he stepped over to the off-duty security officer. “Hey,” he greeted with a mustered smile, hoping this one would be somewhat returned. It wasn’t, but then again, Malcolm knew Mr. David hardly ever smiled. 

But the man did return a dull, “Hey.”

It was strange to see him out of his white Claremont uniform, instead wearing a black suit and tie. “I didn’t think you’d be here.” Malcolm made small talk, unsure what else to say. He’d already asked Mr. David about the case, and the profiler was rather relieved to take a break from sleuthing to chat with a familiar face.

“As I said, I’ve known Jerry for years,” Mr. David mumbled, then sadly corrected himself, “Knew him, for years.”

Malcolm gave a dispirited nod.

Mr. David hesitated before wondering, “Can I ask you a question?” 

“Of course,” Malcolm answered.

Mr. David hesitated again. He didn’t want to ask this, but he had to know. “Did Martin do this?”

The security officer had _also_ known _The Surgeon_ for years. As he’d stated before, Mr. David had been the closest thing Martin had to a friend in Claremont. That brought a lot of complicated feelings into the picture.

Deeply hidden in Mr. David’s eyes, Malcolm saw conflicted concerns that he recognized, because the profiler had recently felt them too. Fear. Anger. But also, worry and heartbreak --which shouldn’t be felt, for one reason or another, but which were felt all the same. Mr. David seemed to know that nobody other than Malcolm would understand those feelings, and everyone other than Malcolm would judge him for them.

The profiler took a breath, and thought about how to answer him. “No,” he said, wincing lightly. “At least, not directly.”

Mr. David seemed somewhat at peace to hear that, his underlying anger soothed. “Have you found out... anything about him?” he asked next.

Malcolm held his gaze, and lied. “No.”

The man looked downward.

“But we…” Malcolm hesitated to tell the guard the story that he’d been telling everyone else. “We have reason to believe that he is not going to… kill, again.” He didn’t do the most eloquent job of informing him of the ‘situation.’

Mr. David looked up at him, and some of his forbidden worry showed through his phlegmatic expression. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Um. It depends who you ask, really,” Malcolm sighed, trying to smile. He stopped trying. “But in the end... it’s a good thing.”

Mr. David slowly nodded, understanding. He looked over at where the ceremony had been held as if a fifth casket had been added to the funeral.

Malcolm felt a twinge of guilt. He couldn’t tell him that Martin was alive and well. He couldn't tell him that The Surgeon was voluntarily _choosing_ not to kill anymore. At least, theoretically. Malcolm still only had his father’s word to go by, and that wasn't enough to silence his doubts.

Part of him wanted to tell Mr. David the truth, or at least a little piece of it. Part of him wanted to ease the guard’s conflicted concerns, but he couldn’t. Malcolm was forced to leave him to suffer through those confusing emotions alone.

“You take care, kid,” Mr. David rasped with a mournful, but grateful nod.

“Yeah, you too,” Malcolm answered, watching the guard move back to Mr. Steven’s family.

The profiler glanced at the caskets again, paying special attention to each one in turn. Though the lids of the caskets were closed, he knew exactly what each cadaver looked like. He knew the texture and color of their embalmed skin. He knew the cold stiffness with which they were confined to.

He remembered the abandoned transport van where two of the men were found. Mark Freeman had been slumped over in the back of the vehicle while Jerry Stevens appeared to have spilled out of the rear doors. His corpse had been face-down in the gravel and bent unnaturally. He had been shoved aside by his killer, and he had scrapes on his face from the gravel.

Lance Ritter and Matt Rochester had been deposited in the dumpster at Claremont. They’d tumbled into the garbage truck before being discovered and dug out by Dani and JT. Edrisa and the forensic team had described their corpses as ‘having been through hell,’ and they weren’t wrong. Malcolm remembered the bruises and filth on their half-naked bodies.

The profiler looked up, beyond the row of caskets, to watch that same little boy from earlier. The child was holding his mother’s coat as they sulked back to their car. He was rubbing his red, tear-soaked face with the back of one hand.

That was Mr. Ritter’s son.

Malcolm was very glad that the friends and families did not know the details surrounding their loved ones’ deaths, and did not have such images or details stuck in their minds for the rest of their lives --like he had in his own.

But that was a burden Malcolm was willing to bear. He would endure the images and the details of what he’d seen for the purpose of using them to track down the victims’ killers. It was what he was good at. It was what brought him absolution. It liberated him from his own father’s ever-haunting sins.

Malcolm looked beyond the family, and even beyond where their car was parked, to a figure standing outside the iron fence.

The figure wore a hat and a large, heavy, dark coat. The figure was watching the family too. Or, perhaps, watching _him._ Malcolm narrowed his eyes as he also noticed that the distant man’s eyes were dark. Sunglasses. On a chilly, overcast, February afternoon. The figure turned and began briskly walking along the perimeter of the cemetery to leave.

Malcolm experienced a gut feeling so strong, it permeated into his heart. He turned to glance at Dani, who was still questioning the last remaining friends and family members. He didn’t have time to interrupt her and bring her with. He had to find out who that figure was. The profiler slipped his hands out of his pockets and jogged toward the iron gates of the cemetery.

However, Dani saw him try to slip away. “Bright?” She excused herself from the others with an apology, then ran after him, calling, “Bright! What are you doing?”

“I saw someone!” he called back, stomping across the uneven grass in his dress shoes.

“Who?” Dani called, hurrying to catch up to him. Her shoes were far better suited to running.

“I think he’s connected to the case,” Malcolm burst onto the sidewalk and craned his head to peer at the end of the block.

“What?” Dani caught up to him, trying to see whatever it was that he saw, “Are you sure?” 

“That man. Dark hat, long coat,” he pointed, marching forward. Dani followed. “He turned away when I looked at him.”

“That’s it?” Dani gave him an expression, but he didn’t see it.

The figure was crossing the street at the corner. “Come on!” Malcolm beckoned. They broke into a jog again. Malcolm took off running down the pavement, knowing he had to cross the street before the stoplight changed, when a river of vehicles would be allowed to flow between them.

Dani followed, arguing, “He turned away when you looked at him? That’s not cause for suspicion, Bright!”

“He’s wearing sunglasses!” Malcolm shot back, his anxiety rising to mix with his adrenaline in a cocktail of panic. 

_“So?!”_

The changing colors of the stoplight served as the lemon slice on the rim of his glass-- completing his cocktail. “Shit.” he hissed, running harder. 

It was too late. The traffic pattern changed. Yet he still threw himself into the street. Dani yelled.

 _“Bright!”_

He narrowly missed the first car and jumped to slide across the hood of the second --executing what was quite an impressive stunt. He used the momentum of the car to help propel him to the other side of the street, though he stumbled upon landing from the maneuver. He ignored the angry honking behind him and kept running, dodging a few other pedestrians along the way. 

The figure had crossed another intersection up ahead, moving with the crowd around him. Malcolm didn’t let him out of his sight. The profiler forced himself to calm and slow to a brisk walk as the man turned a shaded glance over his shoulder. Malcolm still couldn't quite make out any details about him, but it was clear he knew he was being followed. He knew he was being followed by _Malcolm,_ specifically. Malcolm kept his eyes pinned to him.

He jumped as Dani suddenly caught up to him. “Jesus Christ, Malcolm, what the hell--?”

“It’s not uncommon for killers to be present at their victims’ burial,” he explained, continuing to watch his target. The figure separated from the pack of people he had been walking with to turn down a side-road. “Especially if they knew them personally,” Malcolm sped up to a jog again, not willing to lose sight of him.

“Or he’s just some random guy!” Dani cried, keeping up with him and waving an apologetic ‘thanks’ at the drivers who screeched to a halt to let them cross the street.

“Let’s find out!” Malcolm broke into a sprint as the figure slipped into an alleyway ahead.

“Malcolm!” Dani reached for his arm but he broke out of her hold.

“If he’s our only chance at finding the killer, Dani, we can’t afford to lose him!” the profiler cried, taking off. She growled and charged after him, her hand hovering near her holster. She had to admit, the figure was acting a little suspicious, now. But her gut instinct told her that this was a bad idea.

Malcolm rounded the corner quickly, but cautiously, ready to face something dangerous and jump back if needed. He was only met with the sight of the figure breaking into a full sprint down the alley to the next opening. “Wait!” Malcolm bellowed. “Stop!”

Dani echoed, “NYPD, stop!” as they ran after him, coats billowing. The detective did not draw her gun, yet.

The figure whisked around another corner, heading back onto another main road. The three of them dodged around people and crossed a few more streets that were less busy. Their shoes clapped loudly as their heels hit hard against the concrete, sending jarring vibrations through their legs.

Malcolm grit his teeth and charged onward, determined to catch up to their fleeing target. _This was it,_ he told himself. This was the person that they’d get answers from. Even if this wasn't the killer, this could at least be the person who would provide them with the clues they needed to continue their investigation and bring justice to those men and peace to their families.

The figure hurried up a green staircase to an elevated metro station.

“He’s going to board a train,” Malcolm gasped, leaping over a rain gutter and skirting around a trash bin.

They had to hurry. They could already hear the distant squeal of brakes as the train approached on the raised tracks. The profiler flinched as he accidentally ran into someone, who proceeded to shove him away and yell at him. While he caught his balance and threw back a series of apologies, Dani flew past him and scaled the staircase two steps at a time like a bat out of hell. Clearly, his determination had been contagious, and he appreciated her drive.

Malcolm ascended the staircase to follow after her-- but a fearful question slammed into him like a ton of bricks, halting him dead in his tracks.

What if this figure was not the person who he thought it was? What if this figure was instead his _father,_ in disguise?

The profiler took one moment to stare at the steps in front of him, his mind whirling to calculate the possibility of that being the case. It was difficult to calculate. Their height could possibly be a match. Weight, possibly a match as well. But the coat was large, and he didn't know how many layers the figure was wearing.

John Watkins’ voice echoed in his memory.

_‘He was always so anal about keeping his identity protected. Wearing hats and… glasses, and all that shit.’_

In the repair shop a few days ago, a pair of sunglasses had been hooked to his father’s collar --a detail that the profiler hadn’t paid attention to in the moment, but a detail that he remembered vividly now.

Malcolm felt his throat dry up. Was that just a coincidence? He realized he hadn’t seen his father run in years. He didn’t know his gait. He didn’t know what behaviors and movements he displayed while in pursuit. He didn’t know enough about him, nor enough about this figure to either confirm or deny his fear. But if there was any risk of this person being his fugitive father --and there _was_ at least some risk-- he couldn’t take that chance. He couldn’t let Detective Powell catch him.

“Wait, WAIT!” he cried. “Dani, stop!”

She was nearly at the top of the stairs, but she hesitantly stopped and glanced back at him.

“Stop,” he croaked breathlessly.

“Why?” she called, glancing between him and the short distance she had to go before she reached the platform. The train swept into the station with a clamorous thunder and squeal.

“Because--” he choked up, then expressed desperately, “It could put the passengers in danger! Just… um…”

“Does he have a weapon?” Dani called, exasperated. She took two more steps upward. Malcolm tried to calm down. She was no longer hard in pursuit, and that was what mattered.

“I don’t know. He could,” Malcolm swallowed. He cautiously caught up to her as she came to the top of the stairs. Together, they caught their breath and searched through the sea of heads as the train purged and swallowed two different crowds in an exchange of passengers. There was no sign of the figure, but it wasn't hard to guess that he had boarded the train.

Dani still desired to inch toward the closest car. “Malcolm, he’s going to get away! You said--”

“I know, but-- we can’t risk other people’s lives.” He floated a hand in the air and then used it to force some strands of his hair back into place.

“Oh, _now_ you’re worried about that?” Dani scoffed. Perhaps the comment was too harsh. Malcolm lowered his pathetic gaze and she didn’t say anything else.

They watched as the train left. The station quickly grew empty and quiet, like a vacuum had come through and sucked all the excitement and bustle away. It had also sucked away any potential for leads or clues in their case.

They’d let the figure get away. Dani’s tension dropped as she sighed and held her temples. Malcolm grimaced, emotionally torn into pieces all over again. He wished he’d been able to tell if it was The Surgeon or not so they could have continued pursuing in the event that it wasn't.

“I’m gonna call the MTA. See if they can pull security footage.” he announced, trying to sound optimistic. There was still an urgency in his voice as he asked, “Can you retrace our path? He might have dropped something.”

“Okay,” Dani muttered, shaking her head. She may as well have said ‘Fine.’ The kind of ‘fine’ that meant she wasn't really fine. The kind of fine that meant she was upset. Malcolm sheepishly watched her trudge down the staircase again, wishing he could apologize to her.

When she was gone, he didn't call the MTA. He called his dad.

Or at least, he tried to. His father didn’t pick up the call. He didn’t pick it up the second time either. Malcolm paced along the empty station, his fear rising along with his suspicions, until they mounted into anger. Every second that was unanswered was a second that pained him and fed his anxiety. The third attempt went unanswered as well. Worry started to meander through Malcolm's anger, which only made him even more angry. He should _not_ be worried about his father, of all people, right now. He firmly banished those glimpses of emotion.

Finally, on the fourth call, Martin answered.

Malcolm burst, _“Why didn’t you pick up??”_

“You have _never_ been this eager to get in touch with me. Now, normally, I’d be overjoyed, but--” his father chuckled.

“Are you on a train?” Malcolm hissed, cutting through the bullshit.

“A train?”

“Yes, the metro, are you on a train?” he repeated quickly.

“Ahhh, no?”

 _“Don’t_ lie to me, I swear to God,” Malcolm’s pacing was powerful enough to churn a hurricane.

“I’m _not!”_ Martin protested in a victimized whine. "I'm not on a train!"

“What’s that noise behind you?” Malcolm interrogated viciously.

“It’s….” His father hesitated. “Construction.”

“Construction? Really?” Malcolm’s skin seared from the heat within him. He glared at the train tracks, intent on melting them under the temperature of his eyes.

“Yes! Now what do you want, son?”

“The truth!” the profiler barked. “Were you just at a funeral?”

“A funeral? Whose funeral?”

“The _guards’_ funeral. The ones who died during your--” He didn't finish the sentence, closing his eyes and squeezing a grimace on his face. _Escape._

“That was today?” his father drawled.

Malcolm tightened his empty fist at his side, jerking it as he demanded, “God dammit, _where are you??”_

“Still in Jersey,” his father answered calmly.

 _"Where,_ in Jersey?”

He could almost hear his father’s shrug. “Oh, I move around. Different spot every day. It’s been quite lovely,” Dr. Whitly rambled casually.

Malcolm struggled to take deep breaths.

“Don’t worry, Malcolm, I’m just on the other side of the Hudson. Not far away at all,” his father’s voice smiled.

Contrary to his father’s irritating belief, Malcolm was _not_ worried about him. The profiler seethed, “So you _weren’t_ just at Chesterfield cemetery, saw me looking at you, and then ran through the streets to hop on a train?”

“Ooh, how exciting. No, I was not,” Martin answered. A few condescending chuckles followed. “Chasing after innocent strangers, now, are you?”

Malcolm felt an emotional dagger plunge through his chest. The man hadn’t been his father, which meant he could have continued his pursuit. “He _wasn't_ innocent. He was--” Malcolm stopped himself again, this time due to a choking sob. He didn’t know what the figure was or wasn't. He had no proof of anything. He’d made a mistake. He’d let the man escape, and now he’d never know if that figure was somebody who could have provided them answers --who could have provided them with the clues they needed to continue their investigation and bring justice to those men and peace to their families.

Malcolm hung up the call.

He took a deep, broken breath and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Then he sent a guttural roar of anguish through the empty air.


	3. Chapter 3

This was the Whitlys’ first family dinner since the news of The Surgeon’s disappearance shook Manhattan’s roots. As one might expect, the dinner was fraught with tension, filled some very long silences, and sprinkled with a few desperate attempts to cheer each other up and take their minds off the recent events.

Jessica was the source of most of these attempts. She carried in plates of shrimp fra diavolo from the kitchen, explaining with a small amount of exasperation --which she tried to smile through, “Louisa took a leave of absence and Fredrick flat-out _quit,_ so I have been making meals on my own this week.” She didn’t blame her house staff for being afraid to come to work, but it’d been so long since she’d had to cook and do chores all by herself. For once, the woman looked more like a real mom than a talk show host.

She was a bit flustered and a little inconsolable, but overall, she was holding it together --trying her very best to host a perfect family dinner despite the imperfect circumstances surrounding it. She refused her children’s help, commanding for her precious guests to remain chained to the table. Ainsley and Malcolm let her flutter about, knowing it made her happy to serve people. 

As she laid out the elaborate dinner by herself, Jessica sighed, “Forewarning, it’s not the best. But--”

Ainsley interrupted her with a beaming smile and a firm assurance of, “Mom, it’s great. In fact, it's all the more special that you made it yourself.”

“I wouldn’t have even noticed they were gone if you hadn’t said anything,” Malcolm pitched in with a smile, gesturing with his fork, “The house looks great, and this… this is one of the best meals I’ve had all month.”

Jessica smiled in relief and gratitude at her children’s kind words. But she joked with a pointed look at her son, “It’s probably the _only_ meal you’ve had all month.”

Malcolm directed a guilty grin at his plate. As their mother left to grab the dessert platters, Ainsley folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “So, have you heard any news?” she whispered. “About dad?”

Malcolm’s grin faded, and he shook his head and stabbed at a couple of shrimp. “No, Ains.”

She made a slight pouting face, which was on the cusp of transforming into a glare. “Are you just saying that to brush me off?”

He sighed, trying to be patient and kind to her. “No,” he answered evenly before taking a bite of his meal. It was indeed the only one he’d had all month.

Ainsley glanced at the doorway to the kitchen and then hesitated to review, “Mom said… that Gil said there is reason to believe he was... ‘taken?’”

“Originally, yes. But now,” Malcolm shrugged hopelessly, “We just don't know.” He continued to grumble lowly, “All my profiles fell through. We’re at a dead end.”

His sister was sympathetic. She knew he didn't take failure well. He always wanted to solve everything, and when he couldn’t… that was when he was most tormented.

Malcolm continued to stare dejectedly at his plate, but he didn’t continue to stab at the shrimp. Suddenly, he’d lost his appetite. “Nobody knows where he is, or what he’s doing, or if... if people are safe.”

Ainsley gave him a sorry look, wishing she could reach across the table to hold his arm. Then, she winced and asked, “Do you at least know if I can get the cops off my back? I understand it’s for my protection, and I appreciate it, but,” she laughed wearily, “I hate having a _babysitter_ following me around.” Her smile faded. “Do you think it’s okay for me to dismiss them?”

Malcolm looked up at her and heard what she was _really_ asking loud and clear. She was asking ‘what were the chances of The Surgeon resurfacing to come for her?’ The profiler wanted to tell her that the chances were slim, but he didn’t have faith that his father would adhere to the rules he’d set for him. He’d already broken one; immediately answering Malcolm’s calls. “Better safe than sorry,” he told her. “I’d keep them for a while longer.“

Ainsley smirked, loading some food on her fork again. “Funny to hear _you_ say that for once.”

He smirked back, but misery lied beneath it.

“Do you have someone watching you?”

He shook his head, trying to regain his appetite so their mother didn’t regard his hardly-touched plate in the wrong way. “I don’t need it. I practically live at the station, now.”

“Good point,” Ainsley scoffed.

_Buzz._

While his mother was still out of the room, Malcolm checked his phone under the table. A message read;

‘I’d love to hear more about that mystery man you ran after. (Emoji of a smiley face.) Any update?’

As their mother walked back into the room, Ainsley removed her elbows from the table before she was chastised for her lack of etiquette. Malcolm hurriedly silenced his flip phone before slipping it back into his pocket, all the while beaming up at Jessica as she set down a tray of powdered lemon bars. “How are you, mom?”

“Starving!” she exclaimed, taking her seat at the head of the table and placing her kerchief over her lap. “I don’t remember cooking being so _exhausting.”_

“No, really,” Malcolm requested a more honest answer, “How are you?”

She paused in her fussing to sigh and smile at him. “I’m fine, sweetheart.”

He waited.

Finally, while adjusting the straightness of her utensils, she admitted, “Sleeping is hard. I have to rely on pills again, God.” She picked up her fork, then set it back down and decided to start with her glass of wine instead.

Malcolm lowered his eyes from hers and murmured a slow, genuine, “I’m sorry, mom.” For so many things. Things he couldn’t tell her about, and things he hoped she never knew of.

Jessica waved her free hand as she brought the flute to her lips. “It’s fine, dear.” Another sigh, and then she drank. “I just want them to find your father.”

Ainsley inserted herself into the conversation with a cautious, “Do you... think he’s dead?” She glanced between both of her family members, open to hear Malcolm’s opinion too. He didn’t give her one. The profiler only stared at his plate and tried to gather the motivation to twirl some linguine around his fork.

“I don’t know, dear,” Jessica murmured tiredly. “Either way, I just want to stop _wondering,”_ she sighed. A small smile spread across her face as she huffed, “To be honest, the only thing getting me through the week is visiting Gil everyday.”

A smile returned to Malcolm’s face as well. “It means a lot to him.” With Jackie gone, the lieutenant didn’t have any other family to visit him.

“Well, it’s my pleasure,” Jessica beamed. “That man is _hilarious_ when he's on morphine.”

“He should be getting out of the hospital next Friday.” Malcolm threw a smirk in her direction. “Just in time for Valentine’s Day.”

His mother caught his gaze and scoffed defensively, “What’s that look for?”

“Are you two planning on doing anything?” He asked with a knowing look.

Jessica feigned ignorance. “No! Why would we?”

Ainsley grinned and stated the obvious, “To celebrate his release, mom.”

Their mother scoffed, _“To celebrate his release,_ perhaps.” She smirked behind the rim of her glass as her grown children smiled, just shy of giggling. They knew what was up between the two love birds. Setting her glass down, Jessica hummed a slightly somber, “But probably not.”

Malcolm’s smile receded from his lips. “Why not?”

“They’re thinking about keeping him in the hospital a while longer.” Jessica flashed her fingers and shook her head with a roll of her eyes. “Doing more… tests or whatever.”

“Is Gil alright?” Ainsley asked, mirroring Malcolm’s concern.

“He’s fine,” their mother assured before chuckling, “Just dreadfully _bored.”_

“I bet he is,” Ainsley smirked. “Especially now that he’s not supervising Malcolm every day.”

Malcolm threw the blonde a brotherly glare and tried not to worry about the news surrounding Gil’s delayed recovery. His mind whirled through the reasons as to why Gil needed to undergo more tests before being discharged. Lasting brain damage? Nerve damage? Infection? Had his health declined since the last time the profiler had visited him?

Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat as he spotted someone standing behind his mother, in the doorway of the kitchen.

His father. 

He was standing there with a smile strewn across his bearded face, wearing a button-up shirt and a soft vest that he used to own.

Malcolm stared at the intruder for a few seconds, his blood pounding through his ears. Ainsley continued chatting with their mother, and after a few moments, Malcolm realized that his sister didn't see their newest guest. The image of The Surgeon wasn’t real. The profiler took a careful breath and tried to ignore the phantom. Despite his complete loss of appetite, he forced himself to continue eating. It was tough to do with trembling hands.

The hallucination stood there for the rest of the meal, watching them from afar --yet still much too close --with a smirk plastered on his face.

* * *

Martin sent a second text an hour after his first. Evidently, that was as far as his patience extended.

It was a simple, ‘Hello?’

Malcolm still ignored it.

Another hour passed. Malcolm knew his father was saving his third and final text. But his father wouldn’t hold off on texting him for long, and if the third text didn’t elicit a response from the profiler, then Malcolm didn’t have much hope that Martin would obey the three text limit he’d set for him. He didn’t have much hope that Martin would obey _any_ limit he’d set for him.

Malcolm’s tremors worsened through the night. Back at his apartment, he poured a drink for himself with unsteady hands. He leaned his hip against the dishwasher that was never used and took in the sight of his big open floor plan. His kitchen held more counter space than he would ever utilize --enough for a televised culinary competition. The air was so silent, one could have heard a feather drop. 

The flat was honestly meant to be a party flat, capable of hosting and entertaining two dozen people. Maybe his mother had pressured him into living at this property because she thought she could manifest her dreams of him being a famous bachelor who attracted friends like a fresh corpse attracted vultures. It was no secret that she willed for him to evolve into a socialite like her and to gain a flock of friends that he could invite over every weekend. But that would never happen.

_Buzz._

The third and (hopefully) final text arrived. Malcolm took a breath before checking it.

‘Remember that rule about answering texts and calls immediately? (Emoji of a sad face.) Tell me what happened today. I might be able to help! (Grinning face.)’

Malcolm stared at the text for a while, but again, he did not answer. His hypocritical father wasn't truly offering help. He just wanted Malcolm’s attention, and he’d use whatever tools, tricks, and treats necessary to obtain it.

Pocketing his phone, Malcolm threw back his glass of bourbon and then poured a second. He brought his glass to the couch and tried to watch some TV. Before long, a spectacular nature documentary illuminated every pixel of his 4K screen. Thirty-seven minutes later...

_Buzz._

As expected, a fourth text. Malcolm sighed and opened it.

‘If you describe him to me, there’s a _very_ high chance I would be able to identify him.’

Malcolm glowered at the message, knowing it was the equivalent of a dangling carrot. Reaching for it would yield no reward, despite his father's encouragement. Even if he wanted to give in to the trick, he couldn't. Malcolm couldn’t describe the mystery figure. He hadn’t witnessed anything notable about the man, other than his build, his gait, and his clothes, but a person’s clothes could change.

He only replied with a few angry presses of this thumb. ‘You broke a rule.’ _Send._

_Buzz._

‘Which rule?’

Malcolm set his jaw. ‘Most recently, the three text limit.’

‘You weren’t answering me!’

With a quiet rage, Malcolm sent, ‘You’re the one who owes me answers.’

‘I don’t owe you anything,’ his father replied. ‘On the contrary, if anybody _owed_ somebody, I’d say _you_ owe _me.’_

Malcolm massaged his temple. Here came the manipulation.

As if on cue, his father added, ‘I saved Gil’s life. Remember?’

Malcolm returned an equally threatening, ‘I can turn you in to the police at any time. Remember?’

His father sent three texts.

‘All you know is that I’m in Jersey. That’s a very big place, Malcolm.’

‘You have contact with me through an untraceable phone, and that’s it. That’s all you have.’

‘I’m not scared of you, son.’

This was not news to the profiler. Indeed, it was the cause of the majority of his recent anxiety. Not only did Malcolm have no way of ensuring that his father was keeping his unchained hands clean, but he also had no way of holding him accountable for his rule-breaking actions. Malcolm had no means to punish him. All he could do was spill his guts to the police (condemning himself,) give the authorities their texting history, and then watch as they’d try and fail to locate the glorified walkie talkie’s other half.

Malcolm was powerless, and trapped.

After a few moments, his father sent, ‘You seem upset with me for some reason. But I could be misinterpreting.’

‘It’s hard to tell what you’re feeling without being able to see your face.’

‘Perhaps you could use more icons in your messages?’

Malcolm spammed some (emojis of a middle finger) and hit send.

‘Well that definitely cleared things up. No question about it, you’re upset.’

No shit.

‘Why are you upset with me?’ his father asked. ‘I haven’t done anything to deserve your anger.’

Malcolm slowly shook his head and blinked with an irritated disbelief before texting, ‘Why didn’t you answer the first time I called you today?’

‘I was busy,’ his father answered. ‘Be reasonable, Malcolm. I can’t always pick up the phone on the first ring.’

‘Busy with what?’

‘Work.’

Malcolm felt panic tighten in his chest. _‘Work???’_

'Yes, I got a job. You should be very proud of me. I’m incorporating myself back into society!’ his father declared.

‘What’s the job?’

His father flipped the conversation back in the direction he wanted it to go. ‘How about you answer _my_ question now?’ 

Malcolm didn’t.

‘Why are you upset, son?’

Malcolm tried to keep his eyes on the TV.

‘Was it just because I didn’t answer you right away this morning? Would you feel better if I said I was sorry?’

Malcolm focused on the sharks and the coral reefs in the documentary.

‘Are you stressed about the case?’

Malcolm still didn’t answer.

A fifth text.

‘You’re at a dead end, aren't you? You didn’t gain anything from chasing around that mystery man.’

Malcolm grit his teeth and watched the 4K footage of the tropical ocean. It was not calming.

The truth was, the case was _not_ at a dead end. The NYPD might not have any leads to follow, but Malcolm had one lead. His father. The problem was, The Surgeon would only lead him down a deep dark spiraling path that he did not want to follow. He was already wading too deep. Malcolm did not want to play into his father’s hands. Not again.

A sixth text. Malcolm bit the inside of his cheek.

‘As I said before, I might be able to _help_ if you describe him to me.’

The profiler furiously texted back, ‘If you really wanted to help, then you would tell me what you know without expecting anything in return.’

‘But don’t bother. I don’t need your help to solve this case.’

‘I don’t need you period.’

‘I need you to _FUCK OFF_ and leave me alone.’

A long pause followed his bombardment.

With another few buzzes, his father appeared to concede.

‘Alright, son.’

‘I’ll give you your space. When you want to talk, just give me a call.’

‘I’m always here if you need me.’

Malcolm punched, ‘I told you, I don’t.’

‘Maybe not right now,’ his father replied. ‘But you will.’

‘I promise.’

With a grimace of frustration, Malcolm slammed the phone closed and pelted it into the cushion of the sofa chair across the room.

He had a direct connection to the person who held all the answers, but that person would not share them unless he received something in return. Unless he received _Malcolm_ in return. His time, his attention, his very soul, and above all, complete control. Until Malcolm dug up the details of his father’s escape, ten broken families would be kept up every night wondering ‘ _why?’_

Malcolm blamed his father for their anguish almost more than he blamed the killers. All he could think about were those four caskets, and those four crowds of relatives. All he could picture was six more. Twenty five more. Who knew how many more. The entire cemetery may as well have been filled with people whose lives were ended short and whose families were torn apart by his father’s actions, either directly or indirectly. 

Malcolm was angry enough to turn The Surgeon in right then and there. But he couldn't. He had nothing to give the police, except a recount of his own foolish actions and a testimony that would put all focus on him, and not on finding the murderers. The profiler felt stuck in a spider’s web; strangled and unable to breathe. 

“Well, what do we have here?”

Malcolm flinched and spun around to see his father again.

The Surgeon stepped into the room, taking in the view of Malcolm’s daring choice of decor. “Quite the collection you’ve got, son.” He gestured at the display cabinets of weaponry surrounding the flat screen TV. “I love it.”

“How did you get in here?” Malcolm recoiled on the couch as if ready to spring away, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off what he saw.

“Don't worry, I’m not real,” his father mumbled, stepping closer to admire the cabinets’ contents.

Malcolm did not calm down. He hissed a firm, _“Leave.”_

“Mm, sorry. I can’t,” the hallucination murmured, making an expression that showed he wasn't sorry at all. “Is that a British spadroon? Marvelous.”

Malcolm abandoned the room, stumbling straight back to his kitchen to reach for the bottle of bourbon. He tried to ignore his father’s voice, washing it away with gulp after burning gulp.

“Ooh, and a mace, even. I don’t suppose you’d let me touch any of ‘em.”

“Get out!” Malcolm yelled after swallowing the alcohol.

“Didn’t think so,” Martin hummed, continuing to examine the blades. “Look at _this_ one. Just think of the _damage_ that one could do.”

“Go away.” 

The hallucination did not go away. Malcolm suddenly rushed back to the living room and threw the bottle of bourbon as hard as he could. _“GO AWAY!”_

The bottle passed right through his father like he was only a projection of light. The glass behind his father shattered and cascaded to the floor with a tremendous crash. The Surgeon glanced at the alcohol soaked glass around his feet, murmuring without care, “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made a mess.” He spoke as if Malcolm spilled something as harmless as inconsequential as milk.

Malcolm cried out a distressed noise and lifted his hands to grip his hair. Maybe if he pulled at his own scalp hard enough, the hallucination would stop.

It did not. “Temper, temper.”

Malcolm collapsed onto the leather couch, grabbing a pillow to press it over his ears and head. _“Go away!”_ he yelled again. He repeated it, over and over, until all he could do was replay the phrase in his head. He didn't dare stop. He tossed and turned, eventually facing the back of the couch and trying to either hide or suffocate himself between the cushions.

After a while of breathing into the leather, he slowly calmed down and regained his breath. His hands relaxed and he no longer pressed the pillow around his head. All was silent and peaceful. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that his father was finally gone, he could just feel it.

He released a long sigh that condensed against the black leather.

Immediately after, he heard a woman’s distant scream. Malcolm startled upright and glanced around. The apartment was dark and empty, save for a lonely warm glow behind him. His kitchen was gone. His coffee table, desk, sofa chair, and all other furniture were gone. All that remained was the couch he lay on and the cabinets behind him --empty. His weapons had been stolen, leaving only vacant pegs and fixtures where they were once displayed. His windows, hard wood floors, and stone wall were gone as well. The room was built of cold concrete, and he realized this was not his apartment.

This was the basement.

Another blood-curdling scream tore through the echoing air. He whirled around to look down the hall where it came.

_No. No, no, no._

He sat up and placed his bare feet on the cold ground. They were child’s feet. He was young again, but he didn't notice. His small heart beat like a mouse’s beneath his silk button-up pajamas as he walked around the couch and wandered down the hall.

“Dad?”

He was answered by another shrill feminine scream, this one paired with some kind of plea. Words. _‘Oh God, please,’_ or similar. The distant voice was difficult to make out, but it continued between loud sobs. _‘Please.’_

“Dad!” Malcolm started running down the hall, calling out, “Dad, stop! _STOP!”_ He ran as fast as his little legs could carry him, but the halls were endless --repeating around each false corner. He felt as if he were sprinting on a treadmill. All the while the screams continued. The woman begged and cried but Malcolm's small voice screeched above her sounds, “STOP! STOP!” 

Finally, he burst into another room. It was also empty, except for the dusty old trunk that sat in the center of the space.

No, nonononono.

He didn't want to approach it, but his body was out of his control. He felt his feet scuffing against the floor. He felt his arms reach out and release the metal, spring-loaded latches. He felt his palms rest on the edge of the lid and push upwards.

_No, no, NO!_

The bottom of the trunk was missing, serving only as an opening to a deep, dark pit that was filled with heaps of bodies in various stages of decay. 

A communal grave.

It was quite the collection.

Malcolm was choked by the overwhelming scent of dead, rotting, bacteria-infested, organic material. Skulls and heads were staring straight up at him, their hollow eye sockets and missing jaws still screaming and pleading for help. Entrails snaked through the skeletons and tangled around the fleshy bodies like linguine. As he leaned forward to push the lid further open, he felt himself roll over the edge of the trunk. Powerless to avoid it, he fell inside, screaming like those who had fallen in before him.

The lid closed behind the child, plunging him into darkness just before he plunged into the pile of his father's victims.


	4. Chapter 4

Pain lashed through him as he slammed against something.

Gaining his senses, Malcolm winced and coughed a hoarse, “Ow.” The profiler hissed as he brought his hand up to his throbbing head. The hair around his ear was wet and his cheekbone was tender. His fingers came away red.

Sunlight penetrated through the windows as the cacophonous sounds of traffic populated the world outside his apartment. He noticed that the corner of the coffee table beside him bore a spot of blood, and he realized he was dripping on the rug beneath him. It didn’t take a detective to piece together that he’d hit his head whilst suffering a night terror.

His collection of historic weapons was still in the display cases, though one glass panel was broken and framed with jagged shards. Fragments of a bourbon bottle mingled with the crystalline crumbs on the floor. He’d have to clean that up later.

Shakily standing up, he transferred blood onto his leather couch as he held onto it for support and felt a tsunami of dizziness overcome him. Blinking through his distorted vision, he caught sight of someone in his kitchen.

His father. 

“Ooh,” The Surgeon winced, leaning against the counter and wiping his glistening ruby hands on a dish rag. “You should go get that looked at.”

Malcolm stared at his father’s bloodstained rag and felt a fresh wave of nausea bubble up from his gut. _“Fuck,”_ the profiler whispered. If his nightmares were going to give him head trauma, then they could at least spare him from their presence when he was awake.

His body heaved as he vomited behind his couch.

The Surgeon watched him expel the alcohol he’d consumed the night prior, making a face and nodding, “Take my advice.” 

Malcolm fumbled to grab his smartphone --leaving the other one on the sofa chair-- and then called for a ride to the hospital. Blood dripped down his jawline and dotted across his apartment floor as he stumbled for the door.

The hallucination watched him go with a smirk.

* * *

A CT scan revealed that Malcolm had a mild concussion, along with an impressive hangover. He was given some stitches, medication, fluids, trail mix, and a scolding to remind him of the importance of his bed restraints. He nodded along and promised he would take better precautions next time. After being monitored in a hospital room for a few hours, he was released with a square of gauze taped to his cheekbone. It wasn't large enough to cover the bruise on his face, but it protected his stitches from getting infected.

However, the profiler didn’t leave the building. He headed straight to Gil Arroyo’s room. He figured that if he was going to pay a visit to a hospital, he may as well visit the hospital in Orange County where the lieutenant was residing. Malcolm may have been concussed and hungover, but he still had enough brain cells to think ahead.

With a knock on the door frame, he entered the man’s room. 

Gil’s face lit up at the sight of him. “Hey kid,” he laughed, setting his cup of noodles down on the hospital bed tray. He no longer wore a nasal cannula, but he was still rocking the hospital gown and he still had gauze stuck over the healing skin of his throat.

“Hey Gil,” Malcolm approached the bed. “How you holding up?’

“Alright. Sick of eating Jell-o,” the lieutenant grumbled with a small glare at his lunch. He turned his glare to the profiler’s wound. “Where’d you get that?”

“From my coffee table. I fell asleep on the couch last night,” Malcolm muttered. It was a stupid injury, and he was clearly embarrassed about it. “Sometimes I think I should just wear a straitjacket for pajamas.”

Gil gave him a sorry look and attempted some optimism. “At least you _slept,_ for once.”

“Yes, but at what price?” Malcolm chuckled and took a seat beside the bed. It wasn’t actually a joke, but Malcolm found an inappropriate humor in it all the same. 

They chatted for a while. Malcolm told him of the funeral and the mystery man, though he failed to mention that he’d initiated a chase through the streets and nearly got himself run over by a taxi in the process.

“Have you heard back from the detention complex about Corey Wheaton?” Gil asked.

“After what happened when I visited Watkins, I don’t think they’re going to clear me to talk to him,” Malcolm muttered hopelessly.

“We’ll see about that,” Gil challenged with a nod. “I’ll make a few calls today.”

Malcolm smirked gratefully, hoping that Gil could pull some strings and make the meeting happen. If his suspicions were correct, he was willing to bet that The Carousel Killer was somehow connected to The Surgeon’s escape.

During a break in their conversation, Gil tilted his head and asked, “Are you doing okay?”

Malcolm didn’t answer. He looked down at his hands, massaging away a tremor.

“What’s the matter, kiddo?”

“Um. I’ve been having some... nasty nightmares, lately,” Malcolm told him. “Worse than I've ever had.” And that was saying something.

“Because your dad is out?”

“I guess so.”

“Because you're worried about him?” Gil prompted further.

Malcolm made a face and shook his head. That wasn't exactly the case, anymore. “Because… I don't have control,” he admitted.

It was driving him certifiably insane.

“Sometimes we gotta accept that we don’t have control,” Gil advised, humming a sad laugh. “It took me _years_ to learn that.”

Malcolm listened to the lieutenant as the man reminisced, “It’s a hard thing to learn. I used to think that if I had kept more control --over situations, and people, even my own officers-- then more folks could have been saved. More bad guys caught.”

Gil made a remorseful face, then looked at Malcolm seriously. “But there's only so much you can do. All you can do is your best, and sometimes that's not enough. You can't beat yourself up over that. Beating yourself up just makes you another victim. You gotta learn to forgive yourself for not always being in control.”

Malcolm smiled sadly and nodded, deep in thought and reflection. These were things he knew once, but things he’d needed to hear again. Things that he was able to _believe_ again, after hearing them from his hero.

Gil gazed at him with a pained look. “You may not have been caught in that blast at the junkyard --thank God-- but it sure shook you up. I can tell.”

Malcolm broke their eye contact.

“Don’t let that incident knock down your confidence, Malcolm,” Gil asked. “You are the smartest kid I know. The smartest _person_ I know. And more than that, you are the _goodest_ person I know.” They both chuckled at the silly word, but from behind his grin, Gil continued, “You really are. Your heart is always in the right place. Sometimes it makes you do really _stupid_ things--”

Malcolm smirked sheepishly.

“--But you’ve got a good heart,” Gil finished with pride in his voice. “Don't ever doubt that.”

Malcolm nodded, unable to prevent a glow from warming his face. “Thank you,” he smiled, then repeated with more weight, _“Thank you,_ Gil.” The lieutenant had no idea how much the profiler had needed to be reminded of that.

Moving on, Malcolm glanced at the hospital equipment and asked, “I heard they were keeping you in here a bit longer than planned. Why is that?” His mother had mentioned tests, but Malcolm could tell she‘d been hiding the truth.

Gil sighed, appearing dismayed that the news had reached the young man’s ears. “They found a tumor.”

Malcolm had not expected that. He blinked. “What?”

“They found it on the back of my neck,” Gil explained, lifting his hand up and turning his head to point at a spot above his bandages “Right… here.”

“Second cervical vertebra,” Malcolm identified in a whisper. If a piece of shrapnel had embedded near that spot, Malcolm and his father might have spotted the tumor during their operation. Malcolm wondered if Dr. Whitly would have even pointed it out if he _had_ seen it. It was astonishing to think that they had been poking around so close to something like that, entirely unaware of it.

“Funny thing is; if I never would have been caught in that blast, it would have grown, and it might have been too late by the time we found out about it.”

Malcolm remained in shock.

The lieutenant sighed. “I’m going back into surgery in two days. They’re gonna take it out.”

“Oh, Gil,” the profiler empathized with furrowed brow.

“It’s alright,” the man smiled. “They said we caught it early enough that it shouldn’t be difficult to remove. And your mom promised to be here for it.”

Malcolm nodded, still stunned by the news.

“Relax. It’s a good thing.” Gil urged, reaching over to clap his hand on the profiler’s wrist.

“Yeah. I guess it is,” Malcolm mused. By some crazy, unexpected turn of fate, that near-death experience had ended up saving the lieutenant’s life. 

Dani’s voice echoed in his mind, giving him credit where it was due. _‘It could have been a lot worse. He’s very lucky. Gil is alive because of you, you know.’_

Who would have thought that accidentally sending the lieutenant into the wake of a bomb would result in something like this? One could call it an act of God, or karma, or just one of the many mysterious ways in which the universe worked, but this was proof that sometimes things worked out for the best.

The news helped to heal Malcolm’s confidence and restore his faith.

He smiled and glanced over to the officer’s bedside table. “Speaking of mom,” Malcolm lifted a pointed finger, “Are those from her?”

The bedside table displayed a few get-well cards and some small bouquets of flowers from the NYPD. But one gift towered above the rest. A ridiculously large vase filled with an elaborate rose arrangement, and an equally ridiculous and large heart-shaped card.

“How did you know?” Gil asked with a laugh. “She’s so funny. Always has to out-do everyone else.”

“I think she just cares about you,” Malcolm grinned. Judging from the size of that thing, it was a lot. “We all do,” he added warmly.

Gil suppressed an embarrassed smile.

“We can’t wait to have you back at the precinct. Your replacement is quite an earful,” Malcolm made a face.

The lieutenant rolled his eyes and muttered, “McLeod is a piece of work, but he’s an honest cop. Sometimes that’s all you can ask for in this city.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm hummed.

Gil patted his wrist again. “I’ll be back before you know it, kiddo.” 

“I hope so.” Malcolm was not a physically affectionate person, but he didn’t mind when Gil laid a kind touch on him. The young man held the lieutenant’s hand and smiled at him for a moment before standing up with a sigh. “Take it easy Gil.”

Gil beamed at him. “You too, son.”

Malcolm’s smile brightened, and he quickly left before the expression spread into an uncontrollable grin.

* * *

The profiler returned to an empty apartment. That is, one that was empty of any lingering hallucinations.

Inspired and strengthened to start his day in a healthy way, Malcolm cleaned up the glass and the blood on the floor, took a shower, donned fresh clothes, popped his pills, stretched, and grabbed a daily affirmation card. He read it out loud and savored every word. “I release my doubts and insecurities. I learn from my mistakes. I accept the past as it happened. I did the best I could with what I knew. My past does not dictate my future.”

He exhaled an, “Okay,” and tried to take the message to heart. After attaching it to his fridge and grabbing his overcoat, he headed out the door. But he stopped with his hand on the knob, feeling that he was forgetting something vital. Turning around, he approached his sofa chair cautiously, then picked up the Nokia from the cushion and opened it.

No new messages.

Malcolm relaxed, pocketed the device, and then turned to leave.

* * *

He walked up the Hudson River greenway, a seemingly endless waterfront trail on the west side of Manhattan. His coat billowed in the crisp breeze as he rested his hands in his pockets. He liked the way the chilled air subtly dried his eyes, numbed his ears, and cooled the heat of his bruised cheekbone.

The greenway was a favorite spot of his and his sister’s. Together, they’d ridden bikes along the path when they were young. 

Malcolm walked past the tree that marked where his little sister had an accident one time. He remembered the distortion of her tear-stained face, the way her blonde hair stuck to her cheeks, and the way her pink helmet had been lopsided atop her head as she sat next to that tree and bawled. He’d laid his bike down and knelt with her, trying to comfort her until their father had caught up to them.

 _‘What’s the matter?’_ their father had called with a laugh behind his grin.

The situation had not been funny to five-year-old Malcolm. _‘She crashed!’_ he’d called back. Surely, their father had seen what happened. _‘She hurt her arm, dad, hurry!’_

Their father had been in no rush whatsoever to approach the children, calling as he’d casually walked over, _‘Is her bone sticking out?’_

 _‘No!’_ Malcolm had answered impatiently. _‘But she’s bleeding!’_

_‘Oh, she’s just fine.’_

Finally, their father had joined them. He’d taken Ainsley’s small arm in his gentle grip and examined her elbow, wiping the residual grass and gravel away from her wound with his thumb. _‘Yes, see? You’re fine. A little scrape is all.’_ He’d taken a gauze pad and bandage from his coat pocket and dressed her elbow with low murmurs to soothe the three-year-old’s blubbers and sniffles.

Ainsley had refused to get back on her bike, so their father had carried her on his hip for a while, guiding her empty bike beside him with one hand on the handlebars. Malcolm had stayed close and practiced circles around them, glancing up at his family with quiet concern after every completed orbit. They had been the center of his universe.

When the little girl had calmed down and accepted the fact that she was indeed fine, their father made her get back on the bike. _‘You’re not a baby anymore, sweetheart. You’re a big, strong girl, and you’re going to try again.’_

Malcolm had hovered close by, pitching in his encouragement. _‘You can do it, Ains. It’s okay.’_

As she halfheartedly pedaled with a monumental pout on her face, their father had walked alongside her with one hand placed against her back until she regained her confidence.

Malcolm still remembered the soft, grinding sound of his rubber tires rolling across the pavement as he turned his bike and enticed her to play with him again. _‘Come on, Ains, come catch me!’_

Before long, she’d forgotten about her fear of crashing again, and had proceeded to pump her little legs as hard as she could to chase after him with a shrill laughter, leaving their father in the dust once more.

Malcolm hadn’t seen it at the time, but he had felt his father’s smile on his back like the sun’s warm rays.

The profiler left the memory in the past as he walked beyond the tree. He doubted Ainsley had any recollection of that day. She’d been so young. The two siblings had continued to visit the greenway to chat every now and then, though bikes were not involved. He’d frequently walked this path with her after school. They’d shared conversations about boyfriends and girlfriends and teachers and the things they wanted to be when they grew up. They had walked this path when Malcolm broke the news to her that he was leaving for Quantico. She’d burst into tears all over again that day --and had hugged him so tight, he was certain she’d never let him go.

Malcolm came to sit on a park bench, resting his elbows on his knees and looking out at the Hudson as he massaged his gloved hands. The Lincoln Tunnel ran under the water to his far left while the George Washington Bridge ran above the water to his far right. Boats sluggishly passed over the surface of the river in the distance while bikes and joggers flashed across the foreground of his field of vision. The skyline of Jersey stretched along the horizon, partially veiled by low-hanging storm clouds that gradually crept in his direction, threatening to take over what could have been a bright and warm afternoon.

But Malcolm didn't focus on any of that. He only focused on the river. What was once a small red line between him and his father had now grown into a massive blue one, yet he still was afraid to cross it. An endless sky had replaced the confines of what was once a brick cell and no tether, chains, or fetters kept any monsters in place. The concrete jungle residing beyond that barrier was an unpredictable wilderness that threatened to swallow him whole if he ventured into it. He feared he would lose himself if he crossed that blue line, never to return to the light of day.

The profiler did not look over at the familiar woman who was sitting beside him. He knew it was his childhood therapist, Dr. Gabrielle Le Deux. The phantom sat with him in companionship for a while as he stared at the river, quietly taking in the daunting view with him, until she murmured, “You know what you have to do.”

“I’m afraid,” he replied.

“Of?”

“Facing him again.”

She gave the young man a look. “You are not a helpless little boy anymore, Malcolm.”

“I’m still no match for him,” he muttered, staring at the river as the storm patiently churned in the sky on the other side of it.

“Yes, you are,” she argued, emphasizing slowly, “You are just as clever, and just as much of a force to be reckoned with, as he is.”

Malcolm refrained from rolling his eyes, attributing, “Because I’m his son.”

“Because you are _you,”_ she corrected firmly. “And you are _better_ than him.”

“And you have _better_ people standing behind you,” she added, turning in her seat to face him. She gestured behind them at New York City, whose skyline was much larger and whose buildings were still blessed with the light of the sun. “You have the police, and Dani, and JT, and Gil, and your mother, and your sister,” she listed.

She waved a hand over at the dark land beyond the Hudson River. “Whoever he has on his side, they can’t even begin to compete with your support system. No way, no how.”

Malcolm did not smile at the hint of humor in her tone. He felt nothing but guilt. He never wanted to involve anybody in a war. 

The bikes and boats and joggers no longer existed, to the profiler. No traffic blared in the distance, no squirrels chirped in the trees, no pigeons pecked at the pavement. All was quiet and still, and the only things that existed in this frozen time and place were him, his therapist, that river, and that distant churning storm.

“Gil will forgive you for doing what you had to do to save his life,” Dr. Gabrielle told him. “He will forgive you for doing what you have to do to catch those men. Your team will forgive you. Your family will forgive you.”

Malcolm wasn't so sure that they would.

“Gil was right,” Dr. Gabrielle identified. She shook her head, but her eyes remained kind. “You’ve lost your self-confidence. Your father stole it from you and used it against you.”

“We switched places,” Malcolm whispered, looking down at his hands as they quaked. “He is freed and I am imprisoned.”

“That's not true,” she snapped, hitting his arm. “Don't believe that.”

He looked over at her as she drilled the truth into him. “You have _nothing_ to lose. But him? He has _everything_ to lose.” She poked a finger at him three times. “He has _you_ to lose. He has his _freedom_ to lose. _You_ have control here, _not_ him.”

“Your father doesn’t want you to recognize that, because then you will see that _you_ have the power in this relationship, _not_ him.”

The phantom’s lecture was calming, and Malcolm nodded distantly. But he still had a deep, sickening feeling that he was going to be played like a fool again. A puppet eternally chained to strings. 

“Grab those strings and reverse the relationship,” she encouraged him. “You _have_ to confront him, Malcolm. You _have_ to see him again. The _real_ him, not a hallucination in your apartment.”

Malcolm’s nod grew stronger. “You’re right.”

She smiled peacefully. “What else are you afraid of?”

The young man took a deep breath, and a gentle breeze wafted over the vacant greenway. “I’m afraid of discovering the truth,” he answered. “I’m afraid to find out that he hasn’t changed. That he’s still killing people. That everything he said in that auto shop was a lie.”

“Do you think he _was_ lying in that auto shop?” she prompted.

“He _had_ to be,” Malcolm expressed. “After twenty years, I’m sure killing someone was the first thing he wanted to do.”

“Or maybe after twenty years, he no longer has the desire,” she proposed, playing devil’s advocate for him to debate against. “It’s not unheard of for people like him to reform. _Evolve._ Get better.”

“I doubt he’s done any of that.”

“But it _is_ possible,” she pointed out, testing his integrity.

Malcolm looked at her and contemplated his reply. He had to cast his hopes aside and remain logical and clear-headed. It was difficult to do, but he knew he had to do it. Finally, he carefully formed the words, “I can’t afford to believe he’s changed.”

Dr. Gabrielle smiled and nodded. He had passed the test. “And as long as you remember that, you won’t make another mistake.”

He smiled back. After a moment, he looked back across the river again, and then stood up from the bench.

A biker flew past on the pathway in front of him. The sounds of traffic once again echoed from the streets and the pigeons cooed as they marched. The distant horn of a barge blared from the river like a brass trumpet and the sun began to recede behind the first cottony fingers of the overarching clouds. Malcolm stood in front of the empty park bench and drew out his phone as the world gently bustled around him.

The Surgeon picked up on the first ring.

 _“Hello,_ my boy!” 

The profiler’s ear was greeted with his father’s voice, which held equal parts triumph and delight. “I knew you’d call eventually. How’s--?”

“I need to see you,” Malcolm cut in.

“To ‘ _see’_ me?” Martin’s voice repeated, holding noticeably less triumph and a substantially smaller dose of delight.

“Yes. Where are you?” Malcolm asked evenly.

“Aheh, well… where are _you?”_ Martin reflected.

“On the Hudson greenway,” the profiler answered without hesitation. “Your turn.”

“That’s such a nice promenade isn’t it? I’ve always--”

“Answer the question,” Malcolm ordered. There was no anger in his voice, this time around. In fact, he allowed a bit of a friendly challenge to present itself in his tone.

A nervous, distrusting tension flowed through the line. His father huffed a guarded laugh. “Where’s this coming from, son? Last night you were _livid_ \--wanted _nothing_ to do with me, and now you _‘need’_ to _see_ me?”

“It’s not a trap.” Malcolm told him bluntly, understanding that that was his biggest concern. During his father’s hesitant pauses, Malcolm drew out his smart phone and tapped on its screen with his other hand.

“Welllll, how can I be sure?” Martin drawled.

“You just have to trust me,” Malcolm replied, using the same finality he’d used before. He stopped tapping on his smartphone and announced, “Fawkes Park, at Lark Street and 24th East. That’s twenty miles southwest of Riptide, and I know you have a car. Meet me there at five P.M. exactly, or you’ll never hear from me again.”

 _“Wh- wait just a second,_ Malcolm, _why_ do you need to see me?”

“Because I need to talk to you,” he answered with a small, casual shrug.

“You’re talking to me right now!” Martin wailed.

“Not the same. I need to see your face,” Malcolm said.

“I can send more icons.”

The profiler smirked, but only in triumph. “Fawkes Park, in three hours, or you will never hear from me again.”

_“Malcolm wai--!”_

Malcolm hung up.

He wouldn’t be answering any more texts. He wouldn’t be answering any more calls. He immediately removed the battery from the Nokia and pocketed them separately. Then, he continued his afternoon stroll.


	5. Chapter 5

Fawkes Park was not a large one. It housed an old metal playground composed of chipped paint and a rusted swing set whose limp chains dangled in the air. A rain shower had come and gone, leaving the roads dark, the sidewalks damp, and the patchy grass slick. The sun was setting behind the thick clouds overhead, bringing an early blue twilight over the Earth and trapping the cold air that the storm had ushered in. Bundled in his wool overcoat, Malcolm Bright sat at an old picnic table under a pavilion and watched the street lights around the square blink to life as the night settled. The last few drops of water fell from the edges of the pavilion's roof, sounding with a small _ tick, tick, tick _ as each pellet hit the pavement below. It seemed that mother nature herself was counting down the time until he’d see The Surgeon again.

But Malcolm wasn’t sure that he would even show up. He was conflicted about if he  _ wanted  _ his father to appear, or not.

The profiler tried not to check his watch, but as five o’clock came and passed, he grew increasingly anxious. He had been bluffing when he said his father would never hear from him again if he didn’t show up to this meeting. He hoped his father wouldn’t call his bluff. He hoped his threat had been convincing enough to lure the supposed ex-murderer out of the concrete jungle and into the open.

_ ‘Do you know how dangerous it was for me to come here? To meet you here? Do you know how much of a risk I’m taking?’ _

Malcolm’s knee bounced as he scanned the park with furrowed brow. No sign of him, yet. Time wore on. Doubts seeped into his mind. Was this the correct park? Had his instructions been unclear on the phone? Had something happened that prevented his father from coming and the profiler had no way of knowing because he’d disconnected the battery from his phone?

He tried to ignore those thoughts. This was definitely the right park. This was definitely the right time. He hadn’t stuttered or left any important details out when he’d called his father a few hours ago. If The Surgeon wanted to come meet him --if he actually valued their relationship over all else-- then he  _ would _ come meet him. He would find a way to make it happen, no matter what stood in his way. Even if all that may have stood in his way were simply his own fears and mistrust.

_ ‘I want to stay connected to you, Malcolm. You're my son. You're the only thing that truly matters to me. Not my freedom, not my art. My son.’ _

The truth was that Malcolm was sitting there because he was calling what could have been his father’s bluff. This was a damn good test of the man’s earlier claims, and if Martin didn’t show up --if he  _ hadn’t  _ meant what he’d said in that repair shop-- then… well, then that ‘would be a real shame,’ to quote his own words.

As the last glow of daylight seeped away, the already-unpopulated park grew more barren. A pair of dog-walkers left, leaving only a group of teenagers huddled in the opposite corner of the square. They frequently tossed the profiler nervous glances, clearly concerned that he was a cop who was looking to bust their drug deal. Malcolm paid them no mind, instead watching the surrounding streets and intersections to monitor the pedestrians outside the square.

A few homeless people dotted the surrounding sidewalks, huddled under ratty blankets and torn tarps while babbling to themselves. Humble hoards of junk were heaped in their stolen shopping carts. In the distance, some men were laughing loudly and cussing to each other as they walked to a smoke shop. Malcolm also spotted a red sharps disposal bin on the corner of the block that seemed to act as a water cooler for the denizens of the area. Needless to say, Fawkes Park wasn't in a great part of town.

_ Ten minutes, _ he vowed. He would wait ten more minutes, and if his father did not show up, then he’d just have to figure out how to solve this mystery without the information The Surgeon kept locked away in his memory. But Malcolm did  _ not  _ want to have to do that. The Surgeon’s knowledge about the case was vital to solving it, because it was derived from his direct involvement. Without his help, Malcolm feared those ten individuals’ murders would be forever unsolved.

As the residual raindrops steadily ticked onto the pavement and as the clockface of his expensive watch slowly progressed on his wrist, Malcolm’s anxiety subsided into something much calmer, heavier, and hollow. He seemed to grow more numb with every passing minute that he waited, and his glances around the park became less and less eager. He pulled his sleeve away from his wrist and saw that time was up, again. Ten minutes past five.

His father hadn’t come. Malcolm had even given him a second chance.

Malcolm debated putting the battery back in his phone to check for any missed calls or messages. He didn't even know if it was capable of receiving delayed messages, or if any attempts to reach him were lost forever in a void. After making a face, he decided to put the Nokia back together and turn it on. It glowed and buzzed to life, but no messages were waiting for him on the screen. He stared down at the device and waited, suspecting that it just needed some time to catch up with what it had missed while it was asleep. While he waited, he continued to occasionally lift his head and glance around himself. 

His phone did not buzz.

“Come on, dad,” he muttered. The man had to have sent something.  _ Anything. _ Even if it was just an excuse.

Five more minutes passed. A third chance. The dark blue hue of the world darkened to black, and still, his phone did not buzz.

His father hadn’t sent anything. Or if he had, it had been lost in a void, unable to be received by the dormant device. Malcolm rubbed his temple. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken the battery out. Perhaps his father had been scared away, and had _ left,  _ abandoning their connection completely --having lost all trust and interest in his son.

Malcolm slowly closed the phone with a soft  _ clap  _ and held it in his hands like a river stone. He stared at the damp, dark pavement in front of him and reluctantly accepted that his plan had failed. A sinking sense of disappointment weighed his heart down.

He’d given Martin a chance to prove his claims to him, and he hadn’t delivered. Actions spoke louder than words. Actions, or lack thereof, spoke the  _ truth. _ What his father said in that repair shop had been a lie. Having a connection with Malcolm clearly  _ wasn’t  _ more important to him than his freedom. And if  _ that  _ had been a lie, then what else had been a lie? The answer was; likely,  _ everything  _ he’d said that day.

Malcolm was upset. He was very frustrated, and a little worried, and somewhat heartbroken. More than he was willing to recognize. He stood up from the picnic table and gave the park and the surrounding streets one last scrutinous look, scanning everything in his field of vision. It was the last glance he was going to give this place, and he combed through every detail he saw with meticulous judgement. Perhaps he was simply desperate to be surprised and have his faith restored.

But he saw nothing.

At least, nothing that could have been his father. The few people who were still out and about were not contenders to be his expected visitor. They were either of a different ethnicity, gender, build, height, weight, and/or age.

However, the profiler’s eyes fell on a figure that had a certain quality he recognized --something familiar and alarming all at once. It was a figure who was standing still beyond the edge of the park, across the street, who seemed to be staring at him. The figure was wearing thick, dark clothes and a scarf. His face was concealed not only in the shadow from the hood he wore but also from the lack of any kind of lighting on the street around him.

Malcolm caught the man’s hidden gaze and stared back at him, trying to glean more about the figure. For a second of foolish hope, the profiler tried to calculate if it could be his father, showing up after all. But the figure turned and began walking down the street, away from the park, reminding the profiler of the man at the cemetery. Gravitated to follow him, Malcolm continued watching the figure as the profiler craned his head and briskly strode away from the picnic table.

He didn’t know if it was the same mystery man from yesterday, or someone different. But he knew it wasn't a coincidence that this had happened to him yet again. He knew that person was someone worth following.

Malcolm commenced a chase similar to the one he began yesterday. It started as a jog to the edge of the park, which then turned into a jog across the street-- though this time, without the risk of getting hit by any traffic. The roads were relatively barren, like the sidewalks. Then, as the man slipped into an alleyway, Malcolm broke into a sprint, determined not to lose track of him.

Like before, Malcolm rounded the corner quickly, but cautiously, ready to face something dangerous and jump away if needed. He was only met with the sight of a long, empty corridor. The opposite end of the corridor stretched much further ahead than what someone could reach in the short amount of time that Malcolm had lost sight of his target.

Malcolm jogged to a halt and turned around, but there was no one behind him either. He was alone in the alley. His confusion dispersed when he spotted an open doorway leading into the back of the building to his right. He gave the building a once-over, noticing the plywood that boarded the windows and the plastic sheeting that hung from some old scaffolding hugging the second floor. The skeletal elements of construction appeared deserted and forgotten.

It was not a hiding place. It was a cage trap.

Knowing the risks, Malcolm made the decision to go inside. With all the windows boarded up, it was nearly pitch black in the building. Even so, Malcolm continued moving with one hand held in front of himself to avoid bumping into a wall. He could feel his pupils dilate to attempt to draw in any discernible shapes or movement. The feeble blue light from the doorway could only bleed into the space so far before it melted into the overpowering black.

Then a shadow wiped away the light as the door closed behind him with a gentle...

_ Click. _

Total darkness.

The profiler froze, his heart drumming. But he did not panic. He thrived on his fear, and his body worked like a factory to transform it into adrenaline --something he could use. Something to fuel his muscles and mind, not paralyze them. He waited for a few seconds, listening, but nothing moved around him.

Another small  _ click _ echoed in the room. It caused a group of long fluorescent bulbs to zap to life, buzzing with a cold hue from the gutted ceiling. The light revealed that he was standing in the center of what was once a jewelry or pawn shop, whose broken display counters only housed dust, dirt, and cobwebs. With a wince, the profiler blinked and turned around. The figure standing beside the lightswitch was no longer wearing his hood up, and his scarf had been pulled loose from his face.

Malcolm exhaled.

“Dad.”


	6. Chapter 6

A measure of relief may have accompanied the profiler’s breath, but it was that of a tablespoon. His factory of fear downshifted, though it did not halt operations. Just because this man was his father, did not mean that Malcolm was free from the danger. He was simply more familiar with it.

Or was he?

For once, The Surgeon did not greet his son. He said nothing and he made no movements, other than slowly lowering his hand from the light switch and letting it rest at his side. Malcolm had never seen the man further from his usual bright and cheery self. He seemed almost… angry. The _quiet_ kind of angry, which was somehow worse than the alternative.

But Malcolm knew that his father was just nervous --armed with a dull, underlying aggression that stemmed from fear and uncertainty.

“It's alright,” the profiler eased with a confident, gentle tone. “I’m alone.” 

After a moment, his father muttered, “Are you wired up?”

“No.”

The Surgeon didn’t seem convinced. He continued staring at his son without blinking. It was comparable to the way a hunter stared through the sight of a rifle --breathless and focused-- or the way a soulless crocodile stared, exhibiting no tells before it snapped open its crushing jaws. Dr. Whitly had never stared at Malcolm that way before, and it tested the profiler’s nerves. Malcolm needed to reassure his father. He needed him to be comfortable, open, and willing to talk, for the sake of the case.

“Check me, if you want,” Malcolm offered, opening his arms. “I have nothing to hide.” Out loud, he said it like it was no big deal. But inside, the last of his common sense was screaming in terror.

Dr. Whitly accepted his son’s offer. He stepped closer, slightly rotating side to side as he did so -- a mixture between a saunter and a prowl.

Malcolm kept his arms up and spread out to his sides. His mind encouraged himself to remain very still, as one's instincts told them to do when they’d stupidly stumbled across a predator’s den.

The Surgeon made his final step, placing himself directly in front of the profiler. They held each other's gaze as Dr. Whitly opened the flaps of Malcolm’s coat. He thoroughly checked the lining, cuffs, collar, pockets, and the space under and around his son’s arms. Malcolm took silent, controlled breaths through his nose and kept his eyes up on his father’s face, doing his best not to think about the fact that he was allowing The Surgeon to manhandle him. It had been twenty years since he’d last felt his father’s touch. But back then, it hadn’t felt like the touch of a serial killer.

With a tug, Martin untucked the profiler’s shirt and slipped his arm beneath it to rest the back of his hand against his son’s chest. Then he trailed his knuckles around his rib cage to ensure that no cord followed up his spine. Although his hand was not cold, the direct skin to skin contact was chilling. Malcolm briefly wondered what would have happened if he _had_ come wired up. But he didn't want to think about that.

Like a TSA agent, Dr. Whitly ran his fingers under the profiler’s waistband and checked his belt buckle. Then he examined his pockets, again using the back of his hand. There, he felt Malcolm’s two phones and wallet, pulled them out to assess them, and replaced them. Between glancing down at what he was doing, Martin held his son’s gaze. He did not smile.

Malcolm’s heart quaked as he endured the inspection. This wasn't a hallucination. This was real, and tangible, and dangerous. There was a great difference between visiting a captive creature’s enclosure at a zoo and seeing a wild animal face to face with no protective glass between them. The profiler tried to conceal his fear. He tried to concentrate on maintaining a poker face. Malcolm couldn’t even identify what he was afraid of. A burst of aggression from his father? The sudden sensation of a blade puncturing his gut, or a needle sinking into his skin? Or simply, just his father’s unrestrained touch and all-seeing eyes?

His father’s deep gaze could expose him like nothing else could expose him, invisibly peeling every layer of the profiler’s psyche back like a cadaver in an autopsy. Malcolm had always felt helpless and unable to hide beneath his knowing look. It used to be a good thing, back when he was little and didn’t want to talk about a bad day at school. Back when he experienced days where he didn’t even know what was bothering him, but his father somehow seemed to understand his emotions all the same. Now, their shared mind link was only frightening. His father knew him to his core, inside and out, and Malcolm feared he could never escape that.

Martin brought his hand up to grab his son’s jaw.

The motion was executed so calmly and smoothly that Malcolm hadn’t realized what the man was doing until his mandible was already in his father’s secure hold. Malcolm tensed and tried to rear his head back, but Martin's other hand was already cupped behind his skull, keeping him there. Malcolm froze, knowing that --although it was uncomfortable-- struggling would only make it worse. He waited as patiently as he could while his father tilted his head to look at the bruised side of his face. He felt like a prize calf being handled and inspected by a loving breeder-turned-butcher who was only raising him for the slaughter.

The Surgeon peeled off one side of the medical tape to lift the square of gauze, judging the stitches on his son’s cheekbone. “What happened there?” Dr. Whitly murmured curiously.

This was not part of his inspection. Malcolm had given him permission to touch him only for the purpose of looking for a wire, nothing more. Telegraphing his movements and making sure they weren’t sudden, the profiler carefully lifted a hand to grab his father’s wrist, telling him that he was done with this, and telling him he was no longer welcome to examine him. “None of your business.”

Dr. Whitly’s stolid expression slowly melted into a grin as he teased, “Did you run into a _pole_ while chasing that stranger yesterday?”

If Malcolm wasn't currently petrified, he would have rolled his eyes. His grip tightened around his father’s wrist as his anxiety drained his patience.

Dr. Whitly didn’t seem to notice. He took his time to press the tape back over his cheek with a firm rubbing of his thumb. Then, he finally let his son go. Freed, Malcom stepped back and took a deep breath to regain his courage. He tugged his shirt forward and fixed the cuffs of his sleeves, but his attempts to put himself back together did little to ease his nerves. He still felt as if he’d been unraveled. His father had a knack for finding the right stings to pull.

“What did he look like?” Dr. Whitly chirped, interested to know more about the stranger at the funeral. “Must have been quite an _eye-catcher_ for you to run after him like that.”

Malcolm’s sacrifice of his own comfort had succeeded. His father was his usual cheerful self again. But Malcolm tightly held onto the wheel of the ship, determined not to allow The Surgeon to derail the conversation. “He was one of the men who helped you escape, wasn’t he?” the profiler accused evenly. He was not here for small talk. He was here to find out more about his father’s stunt.

Martin sighed, his spirits deflating slightly. “We _really_ could have had this conversation over the phone.”

No, they couldn’t have. Dr. Whitly had power over the phone. It was where he was hidden, safe, and connected only to his son. Malcolm had power in person --in the public eye. There, The Surgeon was exposed, outnumbered, and hunted. Malcolm squared his shoulders and held his wrist in front of himself, commencing a semi-formal questioning. “I know you know who that man is.” 

Dr. Whitly lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head, correcting, “Actually, I don’t.”

“Of course you do,” Malcolm growled, uninterested in being lied to.

“I _don’t,”_ Dr. Whitly repeated firmly. “We never crossed paths.” He carefully accentuated each individual word.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, detecting something true in his tone. “You know he _exists,_ but you don't know _who_ he is,” he translated. “You want to find out, too.” They shared a common interest in the mystery man.

Dr. Whitly gave him a look. A peeved, guilty look that said he’d been caught. But it was also a look that said the small truth Malcolm had unearthed didn’t hold much weight or consequence.

Malcolm continued reading into his father’s words and expressions like they were pages in a book. “He _was_ involved with your escape, but he was the _driver,_ that’s why you didn’t see him.” It made sense. The back of the transport van was completely separate from the front.

The Surgeon stayed silent. That meant ‘yes.’ Malcolm could tell, not just because of his father’s silence, but also because of the subtle glare on his face.

This was exactly why they couldn’t have had this conversation over the phone. Malcolm needed to see his face while he asked these questions. “Who was in the back of the van with you? Who released the carbon monoxide gas?”

“I’m not going to tell you _anything_ about that incident, Malcolm,” Dr. Whitly declared lowly, mirroring his son’s posture and holding his wrist in front of himself. Closing up. Guarding himself.

“Yes you will,” Malcolm argued calmly. As far as the profiler was concerned, this was _his_ abandoned pawn shop, and his father was a _guest_ in it. Malcolm boldly stepped forward and laid down the law. “Or I’m going to call the police and have you arrested.”

Martin’s calm face twisted into a wounded, upset expression, “This again?” He was deeply insulted. “Malcolm, a relationship cannot be built on the foundations of _blackmail!”_ he whined.

“You started it,” Malcolm informed him with a mature, authoritative tone. “I’m not afraid to finish it. I will find the people responsible for those murders. I _have_ to. And you’re going to help me, or you’re going back in cuffs.”

Dr. Whitly looked very stressed and uncomfortable, and he clearly did not enjoy feeling those things. With a sideways glance at the empty shelving around them, he hissed, slowly, “I _can't, help you,_ son.”

Malcolm did not relent. He argued with the same, slow, deliberate tone, “Yes, you can, and you will.” 

His father stared into his son’s orbs and repeated, quietly, earnestly, “I can't, _tell you,_ anything.” 

Malcolm narrowed his eyes again, detecting yet another underlying truth in his words.

Dr. Whitly held his gaze, and waited. Malcolm suspected that he saw something there that told him his father _was_ willing to work with him, but the profiler had to ask the right questions in this mysterious game of his.

“Then don't speak,” the young man instructed. “Just listen.”

“Did you ever meet the driver of the van?”

Dr. Whitly’s efforts to hide the answer from appearing in his eyes were unsuccessful. Malcolm could tell the answer was a ‘no.’

“Did you ever hear his name?”

Again, the answer was a ‘no.’

Evidently, The Surgeon’s ability to peel back the layers of someone’s psyche was hereditary, and Malcolm knew it. The profiler had performed the feat nearly every day at work for years. It came naturally to him, and he was good at it, thanks to his father. Malcolm would not hesitate to use that power against him. Dr. Whitly endured the interrogation nervously, but he steeled himself and held his son’s penetrating look with a guarded glare, knowing very well that he was receiving a taste of his own toxic medicine, which he did not appreciate.

“Do you know who was in the back of the van with you?”

Dr. Whitly tried very hard not to change anything about his facial expression. That meant the answer was ‘yes.’

“Was it someone you’ve met before?”

Dr. Whitly sighed through his nose and glanced away for a second. Another ‘yes.’

“Do you know his name?”

Dr. Whitly muttered a dull, bitter, “No,” which meant ‘yes.’

“Can you _tell me_ his name?”

Dr. Whitly spoke up with another stern, _“No.”_

That had been the truth.

Malcolm had a new question. Why couldn’t his father tell him anything? He had to discover the answer to that next. It would serve as the key to unlock the rest of the information about the people who’d helped him escape. But Malcolm had a feeling that the key itself was what the Surgeon truly wanted to keep hidden from him, not the details about his cohorts. It made the profiler wonder what other information was being locked away in his mind.

Malcolm directed the conversation into a sharp left turn and made an educated guess based on what Dr. Whitly had said in the repair shop. “Did you make a deal with Everett Sterling for your release?”

At the sudden appearance of the lawyer’s name, Martin’s glare dropped.

Big ‘yes.’

Malcolm mercilessly drilled his attention through his father’s defenses. “What was the deal?” 

Under the magnifying glass of his son’s searing, scrutinous eyes, Martin growled, “I _didn’t_ make a deal.”

 _“Yes,_ you _did,”_ Malcolm pointed at him, catching him red-handed in a lie. “You _told me_ you did. Was _that_ a lie?” Malcolm knew when Martin was desperate and flustered --when he had lost control-- he told the truth. Not necessarily in through his words, but through his expressions.

At the moment, Dr. Whitly’s expression struggled to settle on a particular emotion. It shifted between irritation, uncertainty, and defeat. “Y-Yes. _Yes_ , it _was_ a lie,” he claimed with a hurried nod.

He was lying right now.

Malcolm did not give him room to breathe between questions, knowing his father was wildly calculating how to get himself out of this tangled mess. The profiler held fast onto the reins and exclaimed, fully intending to increase the man’s stress, “Was everything _else_ you said a lie!?”

Dr. Whitly tried to take a recovering breath, but he abandoned it and snapped a harsh, _“No!”_

Malcolm ceased his barrage of attacks, but not because he’d been scared into a brief silence. It appeared that in his father’s outburst, he was telling the truth. It stunned the profiler for a second. He let Dr. Whitly breathe and recompose himself. But only for a moment. Martin shoved his fists into the pockets of his hoodie and paced in a tight circle while glancing around the room to direct his heated glare at something other than his son.

The profiler pondered to himself. Why would Sterling offer him freedom and go through all of that trouble and meticulous planning? The lawyer must have had something to gain.

“You traded something in exchange for your release,” Malcolm identified. 

“Malcolm, _enough,”_ Dr. Whitly growled darkly. “Let it go.”

The young man ignored him and kept thinking out loud, studying his father’s reactions. The Surgeon’s panic meant that he was getting closer to the secrets he worked so hard to keep.

“You agreed to do something for him.”

 _“Stop,”_ Martin hissed, pinning his fiery glare onto his son.

“Something Sterling desperately wanted that only you could give him.”

His father seethed a warning _. “Malcolm.”_

Malcolm suffered a flash of fear as he realized, “He wanted you to kill someone.”

Martin fell silent.

‘Yes.’

Malcolm felt an anvil drop in his gut. “That’s why he helped you get out. He wanted you to kill someone,” he croaked. His throat was dry and his skin felt cold and hot at the same time. “Someone he hated. Someone he... wanted to give a painful, terrifying death at the hands of a notorious serial killer.”

A serial killer who would see the situation as a win-win.

That was the deal his father had made, and it wasn't hard to imagine that he’d made it eagerly.

Malcolm struggled to breathe, his chest tight. “Dad, what have you done?”

The Surgeon marched over to stand directly in front of him again. “I have done _nothing,”_ he snarled.

Malcolm stared up at him with a new kind of terror --no longer one that was centered around his own safety, but instead around others’.

Martin hesitated, but then emphasized a guilty, _“Yet.”_

“I haven’t done anything, yet,” Dr. Whitly repeated earnestly, shaking his head.

His ‘reassurance’ did little to calm Malcolm. “What about _OUR_ deal?” the profiler cried with a wounded wince. “What about your second chance?”

“I know, I--”

Malcolm threw an arbitrary gesture around the room. “You’ve been planning on killing someone this whole time!”

Desperate to get a word in edgewise and calm the boy down, Dr. Whitly growled through his teeth, “I don’t _want to,_ Malcolm!”

“Oh, you don’t _want_ to kill somebody!?” his son repeated with mockery and disbelief. “You don’t _want_ to get your hands dirty again!? You expect me to _believe that!?”_ It was complete bullshit. Malcolm remembered the way The Surgeon had looked at Gil on that gurney. The way he'd tilted his head and gazed at the lieutenant’s open wounds as if he had been infatuated with them.

Dr. Whitly continued to try to cut in. “I--”

Malcolm wailed, “You _love--”_

 _“I love_ **_you,_ ** _more!”_ Martin roared a vicious, hateful roar. Like a gust from a hurricane, it took Malcolm’s breath away. Dr. Whitly trembled through a sigh and expressed vehemently with a motion of his hand, “I want _this_ to work, between us, _more.”_

Malcolm stared at him. He'd ripped away every single layer of his father to discover his raw, honest, bleeding core. It was not what he expected it to be.

Dr. Whitly took another shaky sigh and calmed down. “I meant what I said to you in that repair shop.”

Malcolm blinked and caught his own breath as his gaze wandered to the floor. He scanned it as if there were pieces of himself scattered across the room that he should pick up and try to put back where they belonged. “But your deal with Sterling…”

“You’re right, I’ve gotten myself a bit... _stuck,_ here, yes,” Martin nodded with heavy irritation, swallowing his embarrassment. “I am very well aware of that.”

He wasn’t just stuck. “You’re trapped,” Malcolm corrected. The Surgeon wasn't free after all. Strangely, it brought a small wave of peace and relief to the profiler.

Martin didn’t like being told that. The word ‘stuck’ implied that he could get himself out of it. ‘Trapped’ had a sense of helplessness attached to it, and he did not consider himself helpless. But his denial was wearing thin.

Malcolm began to shake his head as he processed the information he’d unlocked. His gaze returned to his father, and this time it was a pleading one. “Just don’t do it, dad. Just leave, just--”

“I _can’t,_ Malcolm,” Dr. Whitly muttered sourly. “I _can’t.”_

The profiler stared at him and realized, “He’s holding something over your head. To keep you nearby. To force you to cooperate and keep your end of the deal.”

This time, Martin did not try to hide the answer from him. His eyes screamed, ‘Yes.’

Malcolm took shallow, careful breaths as he pieced together, “You said it was a great risk meeting me and giving me that phone. You weren't just talking about the police.” Had he been talking about Sterling, too?

Martin nervously held his gaze, and conveyed, ‘yes.’

“Why can’t you tell me anything? Why can’t I get involved?” Malcolm asked, desperate to know. “What will happen? He’ll kill you?” he guessed.

No.

Malcolm nodded, understanding, “He’ll kill _me.”_

“Leave it alone, son,” Dr. Whitly warned.

Malcolm shook his head. “You don’t mean that. You need my help. You _want_ my help, but you can’t ask me for it.” The profiler murmured, “You need me to stop you.”

“You _CAN’T_ stop me!” Dr. Whitly snapped with another burst of aggression, making Malcolm jump. Reigning in his anger, Martin growled with a certain amount of regret, “I have to do it, son. It’s the only way.”

That phrase struck Malcolm. It was the phrase he’d used when he’d justified stabbing his father at Claremont. It was the phrase John had used when he justified killing Ellie Jenks. It was a very dangerous phrase.

“No. No, it’s not,” he argued. He stepped forward and expressed energetically, “We can figure out another way. We can work _together,_ dad. As a _team,_ remember?”

Martin cautiously stared into his pupils.

“You don’t have to kill anyone,” Malcolm whispered, wide-eyed and scared.

“Malcolm.” Dr. Whitly nodded solemnly. “I’m going to.”

The profiler was stung. “No. _Don’t.”_

“This is a ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t’ situation,” Martin explained, stepping forward to murmur gently in his son’s face. His hand came up and he tapped a pointed finger heavily on the profiler’s chest. “No matter what I do, Malcolm, _I am going to lose you.”_

At that moment, Malcolm did not mind his touch.

Dr. Whitly glanced down and then took his hand away. It was clear his decision had been made a long time ago, and he was not proud of it. “And I’d rather lose your... _friendship,_ than your life.” He stepped back to give Malcolm his space, but the profiler didn’t want it. The young man followed his slight retreat, stepping forward and growling with his own determination, “I'm not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” Martin muttered in defeat.

Malcolm lifted his hands to grab his father’s broad shoulders. “Dad, we can figure this out. Together. _Please,”_ he pleaded _._ “I want to _help_ you. I want to give you a second chance. I want a _relationship_ with you! Outside of prison, without bloodshed, like you said-- I _want_ that!”

The Surgeon was captivated by his son’s performance.

That was all it was, Malcolm would later tell himself. A performance. He was saying what he needed to say to recruit his father’s faith and cooperation.

That was what he would tell himself.

“Talk to me. _Work_ with me. Please. I can help you. We can help _each other!”_ He gave his dad a small shake. “What did Sterling say to you?”

Martin blinked and seemed to emerge from some kind of dreamy trance. “He… he said if things don't go... according to _plan..._ he’d kill you.” He tipped his head and noted, “Which also means if I get _caught,_ he’d kill you. He said that I need to lay low until….” He trailed off.

“Until what?” 

Dr. Whitly gave him a look --a look that told him he already knew.

_Until the murder._

Malcolm slowly lowered his hands. “When is it going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Martin shook his curly head. “We’ll know more when we see him next.”

The profiler squinted. “Who is ‘we?’” His father was not talking about the two of them.

Again, Martin did not answer. But that was because Malcolm could figure it out himself. There were _others_ involved. Likely, the same people who Sterling had hired to assist with The Surgeon’s escape. The killers that Malcolm was hunting down. They would be involved in the next murder.

“When will you see Sterling next?” Malcolm asked.

“On the evening of the fourteenth,” Dr. Whitly told him through a whisper, disobeying his own rule.

Malcolm nodded, and breathed easier. They had time. They over a week. They could solve this. “What time? Where?” he prompted.

“I can't tell you,” Dr. Whitly shrugged helplessly. It was a false helplessness.

Malcolm gave him a small glare. The Surgeon was telling him some things yet hiding other things. The profiler had got him to leak bits of forbidden information, but his father was being very selective about what he told his son. It was frustrating, but the profiler supposed he should be grateful Martin was willing to reveal anything.

“Can you tell me anything else?”

Dr. Whitly squinted and nodded. “I think I’ve told you plenty. Would _you_ like to have a turn?” he offered with a gesture.

Malcolm sighed and rolled his head. It was only fair, but he didn’t have much to give him in exchange. “I don’t know who I saw yesterday. He had a long coat. Hat. Sunglasses. He ran from us.”

“‘Us?’” Martin lifted his brows.

“Me and another officer I was with, at the time,” the profiler explained. “We were questioning the families at the guards’ funeral.”

“You didn’t make out anything else about him?” Martin asked with a disappointed shake of his head.

“He was... white? About this tall, maybe two-ten, two-twenty pounds?” Malcolm hitched one shoulder. “Average all around.” Malcolm intentionally left out the fact that he let the mystery man get away. “I thought he could have been you, for a moment,” he muttered, still angry with himself for the conclusion of that chase.

Martin’s expression tightened in offense as he whined, “I may be a bit out of shape, but I am _not_ two-twenty!”

Malcolm gave him a defensive shrug. “He was wearing a lot of layers!” 

Dr. Whitly reluctantly forgave him for his gross miscalculation.

After a moment, Malcolm circled back to the gist of his original question and asked, “You really have no idea who he could have been?”

His father gave him a truthful answer. “Trust me, I want to find out just as much as you do.”

Malcolm nodded, overall satisfied with the progress they’d made in this conversation. He had a wealth of data to analyze and work with, now. In a largely unexpected way, this meeting had gone much better than he’d planned. “So what do we do until the fourteenth?”

Dr. Whitly made a face and glanced over at the wall. “Lay low. Don’t make a scene.” That was his job. His eyes darted back to Malcolm’s features. “And find out what we can.” That was the profiler’s job. _“Carefully,”_ Martin added with a warning tone.

“Yeah. Carefully,” Malcolm smiled falsely. _No problem,_ he thought sarcastically. The truth was, he wasn't the most careful person, but he would try his best.

_Buzz._

Simultaneously, they both glanced down. 

_Buzz._

Malcolm reached into his pocket to pull out his smartphone. The person texting him was Gil.

_Buzz._

‘You’re cleared to talk with Mr. Wheaton.’

‘Stop by the detention complex tonight. You have until 9pm.’

‘Don’t worry about McLeod. I’ll call him tomorrow.’ 

Malcolm exhaled through a hopeful smile and darted around his father’s form, heading for the door. “I have to go.” He halted to turn around, pointing at him, “But I need to see you again. Tomorrow?”

Martin smiled. He’d never thought he’d hear his adult son so eager to see him again. “My, how the tables have turned,” he purred triumphantly.

Malcolm ignored him, inching toward the door while asking, “Same time, same place?”

Dr. Whitly made a face and looked at the gutted ceiling, thinking for a moment. He hummed, “Sure,” before reminding him with a playful whisper, “But don’t invite any friends over,” like there was a rule that he had to ask his parent’s permission first.

“Of course,” Malcolm agreed, darting through the door and into the alley. He didn’t close the door behind him. The Surgeon watched him disappear around the corner and then looked down at his feet and smirked to himself.

“Dad.”

Martin looked up to the doorway again, where his son had returned.

“Everything is going to work out,” Malcolm promised.

The profiler knew that life was full of surprising twists and turns. He had faith that, regardless of one’s control, or lack thereof, the universe had a way of allowing things to fall into place right where they belonged. The young man was attempting to reassure his father, like Gil had reassured him.

Dr. Whitly gave him a grateful nod and a smile, either accepting his promise or simply humoring his optimism.

Malcolm nodded back, and then left.

The Surgeon’s smile morphed into another smirk.


	7. Chapter 7

Back in Manhattan, somebody was waiting for Malcolm outside of the detention complex. With his brow furrowed, the profiler got out of his car and shut the door behind him. “JT? What are you doing here?”

“Gil told me to come supervise you. And I wanted the overtime,” Detective Tarmell shrugged, his arms folded across his chest.

“Supervise me? Why?” Malcolm chuckled, coming to stand near his friend.

“Gee, I dunno,” the detective muttered sarcastically. “It’s not like you have a record of doing stupid shit when you’re on your own or anything.”

Malcolm gave him a look, but he couldn’t argue with that.

JT also gave him a look. It was a curious look that dragged up and down his figure. He removed one hand from the crook of his arm to point at the young man’s clothes. “Were youuuu... in the middle of somethin’?”

“What?” Malcolm looked down at himself. His shirt was still mostly untucked from his waistband and he realized his shirt collar was half-popped. _“Oh,_ uh, no,” he hurried to shove the edge of his shirt back into his pants and waved away any very wrong thoughts that JT might be having about what the profiler had been up to prior to this. “No, just... uh….”

JT lifted a brow. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Malcolm nodded unconvincingly, ensuring he was completely presentable again. “Just… took a nap,” he grinned weakly. “Nightmares, you know. I toss and turn a lot.” It was a terrible excuse.

“You took a _nap?”_ JT repeated, dipping his head down to really drill a disbelieving look into the profiler’s flustered face. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm smiled nervously, fixing his collar. “A nap.”

JT closed his eyes and shook his head. “Okay, Bright. Whatever you say.”

“Better?” Malcolm asked, spreading his arms.

JT scrutinized his attire again and muttered, “Much.”

“Great. Shall we?” Malcolm tried to ignore his personal embarrassment as they headed into the complex.

As they walked beside each other, JT asked another question, and it only added to the profiler’s humiliation. “Did ‘a nap’ also bust up your face?”

“Actually, yes. It did.”

* * *

The Carousel Killer was not happy to see Mr. Bright. He refused to look at him at all, instead locking his glare downward at his cuffed hands while he twiddled his thumbs. The convicted murderer sat on the other side of a metal table wearing an orange jumpsuit and toting a pout on his face that would be better suited for a juvenile detention center.

Malcolm didn’t say anything to Mr. Wheaton. He merely took the seat in front of him and folded his arms on the table, mirroring the criminal’s pose, except the profiler didn’t fiddle with his hands, and he didn’t don a grumpy, miserable expression. In fact, he donned the opposite. Malcolm smiled a gentle, calm smile, with just a hit of smugness, as well as pity.

The silence stretched between them. Mr. Wheaton grew more and more uncomfortable under his cool gaze. Before long, he bitterly muttered, “Stop it.”

Malcolm did not stop. His expression glowed brighter.

Behind him, JT leaned against the wall and watched them with a poker face that only gave way to some of his confusion.

 _“Stop it,”_ The Carousel Killer hissed again.

“Stop what?” Malcolm asked, feigning ignorance.

 _“Smiling,”_ Corey seethed, finally dragging a glare up to the boy. “You think this is _funny_ or something?”

“A little,” Malcolm admitted, still smiling. “But mostly, I think this is very, very… _ironic.”_

He’d acquired the criminal’s full attention now.

“You said I was free,” he reminded, “That you killed my dad. But you didn’t, Corey. He survived.”

Corey’s face distorted in a hateful grimace. He looked back down at his hands again. 

Malcolm released a small chuckle. “And now, _he’s_ the one who’s free.”

Corey’s expression festered.

“If you would have never forced my mom to stab him, he would still be locked up in Claremont.”

 _“No,”_ Corey spat. Misery overcame his anger. He rubbed his face and corrected the profiler, “If that bitch would have done it _right,_ then he’d be _dead.”_

Malcolm ignored the way the man addressed his mother. “Maybe you shouldn’t have trusted her,” he shrugged. “Face it, Corey, any way you look at it, _you_ made a mistake. A _big_ mistake. The only person you have to blame is yourself.”

Corey didn’t argue with him. He picked at his nails and didn’t meet the boy’s gaze. A storm of emotions churned across his face, including regret and fury.

“But Corey… this all was part of the plan.”

Mr. Wheaton sharply looked up at the profiler, confused. “What plan?”

Malcolm studied the man’s reactions to his words as he led him down a dark tunnel of thought. One that was as pitch black as the abandoned pawn shop before the lights had flicked on. One which Malcolm was confident he could feel his way through to find the secret hidden at the other end of the tunnel, all while claiming he knew exactly where he was going. He didn’t, but he knew that Corey would lead him there in the end.

“The plan for The Surgeon’s escape.”

Mr. Wheaton erupted, “I didn’t _plan_ for that! I planned for him to _die!”_

Malcolm shook his head. “I didn’t say it was _your_ plan.” 

Corey pinched a glare at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Someone planned to help the Surgeon escape, and they used _you_ to make that happen,” the profiler pointed.

 _“Who?”_ Corey cried, deeply disturbed by this news.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Malcolm explained earnestly. He asked in a steady, calm voice, “Will you help me figure it out?”

Mr. Wheaton’s fire dimmed as he thought about the offer, but then he began to recede back into a silent state of misery.

“Before you did the things you did, did you meet anyone?” Malcolm asked, intent to keep him engaged in the conversation. “Or talk to anyone? How did you know about Claremont’s security? How did you know a ceramic dagger would get through the detectors?”

Corey’s expression shifted uncontrollably as his emotions rode over treacherous waves of recollection. Malcolm wanted to be taken on that journey with him. “Talk to me, Corey.”

Mr. Wheaton clammed up and shook his head, staring down at his hands again. “I don’t know. Sorry. I can’t help you.”

Malcolm knew he was only scared, and retreating into a safe place of avoidance. He commenced an attack on that place of comfort and security. “Do you _want_ The Surgeon to walk free?” he accused. “Do you _want_ him to hurt someone else? Somebody like Amelia?”

Corey grimaced and snarled, _“No.”_

“Then tell me what you know,” Malcolm ordered gently. “So I can put my father back behind bars.”

Corey remained silent. Malcolm let his words settle in the silence, knowing they were planting themselves in the man’s mind. He allowed Corey to feel them deeply burrowing in his psyche. They would unearth deeply-rooted memories from The Carousel Killer’s past. They would bring back the ghost of his dead wife to haunt him and to join Malcolm in pleading for his cooperation.

Mr. Wheaton began to visibly struggle to hold back tears.

“Did someone set you up for this?” Malcolm asked --his voice a warm, compassionate light in the darkness.

Corey shook his head. “No, nobody set me up. Or bribed me, or anything. There was just….”

“What? Tell me.”

The broken man decided to tell him. “Ever since Amelia died, I always… go to this bar on weekends. ‘Mickey’s.’ A few weeks ago…”

It was difficult for him to form his sentences around the emotions lodged in his throat. The profiler listened patiently. 

“I was drunk out of my mind... I don't remember much. But I remember his… his _face_ was on the television.” It was clear by the way Mr. Wheaton seethed in recollection that he was referring to The Surgeon. The man regained control of himself and cleared his throat. “I got talking with this one guy. Said he worked at Claremont.”

“Who was he?” Malcolm asked gently.

“I don't know.” Mr. Wheaton swallowed harshly. “He didn’t say his name. I didn’t ask him. But he said that somebody should sneak in a weapon and just _finish him,”_ he hissed. “I asked, ‘how?’ And he told me. He told me that Claremont had metal detectors, that ceramic wouldn't set off the sensors.”

“How long did you talk to him?”

Mr. Wheaton muttered, “I don't know. A long time. I had questions.”

“And he answered them all?”

“Yeah.”

Killing The Surgeon had been the Carousel Killer’s end goal all along. But Malcolm had already known that. What he _hadn’t_ known --what he’d only recently had a hunch about-- was that Corey was a pawn in Sterling’s greater plan for The Surgeon’s release. “What else did this man tell you?”

“A lot of stuff. Um. That they only let him see certain people. Family, and a few others. That’s one of the reasons I targeted your mom. I knew she could get in. I thought she could _do it.”_ Mr. Wheaton lamented, “But that _bitch_ didn’t do it right!”

Malcolm’s expression yearned to morph into a glare, but he refrained. Before the profiler could open his mouth to ask another question, The Carousel Killer lifted his head to drill an aching look into Malcolm’s core. The tormented man whispered, “You should have done it instead.”

“I should have targeted _you,”_ Mr. Wheaton wailed remorsefully. “You would have done it right, wouldn't you?” 

Malcolm held his pained gaze. This man was pleading with him. This man saw him as a savior he’d forsaken and overlooked, and this man considered that to be his fatal mistake.

“You would have killed him, if you had the chance. Right?”

The profiler didn’t answer. He kept the conversation on track. “I need more, Corey. Any identifying details. What did this man look like?”

Mr. Wheaton tried to remember, tightening his face and pressing his knuckles to his forehead. “He had a hat. He was around my age… probably. Um… he had a raspy voice. _Really_ raspy. Like sandpaper. And he smelled like cigarettes.”

“What about his face?”

“I was so drunk, kid, I don’t know. I don’t remember,” Mr. Wheaton gave up. “I couldn’t stop looking at that _damn TV_ and envisioning that _fucker dead.”_

Malcolm thought over everything he’d learned and nodded. He stood up from the table and gave the murderer an insincere, hollow, “Thank you,” before turning around to leave. Detective Tarmell unfolded his arms and abandoned the wall he had been leaning against, ready to follow his partner out.

“Wait,” Corey croaked.

Malcolm hesitated before giving the man his attention again, hoping he was being called back because of one last crucial detail about Mr. Wheaton’s visitor at the bar.

“Promise me you’ll catch him?” Mr. Wheaton implored.

Malcolm’s silence requested clarification.

“Your dad."

Malcolm didn’t answer, but he nodded his head and then took his leave with JT.

He owed nothing to that man. Corey Wheaton was a murderer. Malcolm did not agree with his claims of being a vigilante, and the profiler could bring him no salvation, redemption, or justice. Mr. Wheaton had decided to become just as evil as the person he loathed and blamed for his wife’s death. Amelia hadn’t been one of The Surgeon's victims. Malcolm’s father had tried to save her, and had failed. But Corey would never believe that. He was clearly the kind of man who blamed his tragedies on others because he was too frightened to face his own faults, as well as hard truths.

Despite what Mr. Wheaton vehemently believed, Malcolm knew that The Surgeon _never_ killed his patients.

Even when he wanted to.

* * *

“I need you to look into every employee at Claremont Psychiatric. Guards, janitors, groundskeepers, kitchen staff --everyone,” Malcolm listed as he marched through the halls of the detention complex with Detective Tarmell.

“We already did, Bright. We didn’t find anything relevant to the case,” JT reminded him.

“Every _former_ employee,” the profiler clarified. “He might have retired, resigned, or was discharged for misconduct. Probably within the last five years.”

 _“Former_ employee?”

“Yes.” Malcolm answered as they checked out through security and exited the building. “I think that man had a grudge against someone at Claremont, or against Claremont as a whole.”

JT made a face. “But… _why?”_

“Why else would he do what he did?” Malcolm shrugged.

“I dunno, money?” JT shrugged harder.

“Well, he was _undoubtedly_ paid to help The Surgeon escape, but if he was a _current_ employee at Claremont, he wouldn’t risk his job for a side hustle,” Malcolm theorized, descending the stairs alongside the detective. “Claremont compensates their people well. My mom makes sure of it,” he added with a small grumble. It was because she’d never wanted something like _this_ to happen. Yet, it still had. “Start your investigation with white males between the ages of thirty and fifty five years old, between five-foot seven and six feet tall, and between one-eighty and two-twenty pounds. And the raspy voice is crucial. A history of smoking is key.”

JT blinked. “You got all _that_ from--?”

Malcolm arrogantly opened his arms and walked backwards to his car. “JT, this is what I do. I’m a profiler.” That would be plenty of info for the NYPD to work with. It would narrow down their search results significantly. The profiler was excited. He was getting closer to completing the puzzle.

“Alright.” JT made a note and then opened his cruiser door. But before he got in, he called over the top of it, “Dude, I gotta ask.”

“What?” Malcolm also paused before getting in his own car.

JT made one of his smirks. “Was it Dani?”

“Was what Dani?” Malcolm furrowed his brow. He realized that JT was talking about earlier, when he’d arrived half-picked apart. “Oh! Oh, _no!_ No, I mean… no, it… it wasn't Dani.”

“Aw, man,” JT whined quietly to himself. “I was _sure_ it was Dani!”

Malcolm felt his face grow red again, and he quickly finalized, “It was nobody,” before he slipped into his car. Starting it, he sighed and muttered to himself. “Nobody at all.”

* * *

Malcolm didn’t sleep very well that night, as per usual. But this time, it wasn't due to night terrors or hallucinations. It was due to the spread of papers across his living room. The profiler looked at every file that JT had pulled for him, and who had subsequently said, _‘If you want it done tonight, do it yourself. I’m goin’ to bed.'_

After scrutinizing every former employee at Claremont who had a history of smoking and fit into the parameters he’d identified based on the mystery man from the funeral, he narrowed his potential subjects down to three --but one of them was listed as deceased, so that left him with two. He stared at the men’s photos, trying to match them with the person he’d chased down the other day. He wouldn’t recognize them for certain until he saw them in person again.

When he was done, he poured himself some coffee and then started an extensive Google search on Everett Sterling, learning everything possible about the lawyer. He scrolled through his social media profiles, read through his previous court cases that were of significance, and even read every single one of his clients’ reviews. He wondered what his father would write in _his_ review.

‘Not only did he spare me from capital punishment, he freed me _entirely!_ Even got me my old job back! 5/5 Stars, would highly recommend.’

Oh, and a few thumbs-up emojis.

Yes. That was what Martin would write.

Delirious with lack of sleep, Malcolm shook his head, wiped a tired smirk off his face, downed another cup of coffee, and tried to focus. He woke up the next morning to find his head resting on the keyboard of his laptop. Fortunately, he hadn’t earned more bruises and scrapes this time around.

* * *

Malcolm continued his research at the precinct, where Dani decided to approach his cubicle after much deliberation. “Hey,” she greeted in her usual phlegmatic tone. “How’s it going?”

Malcolm looked up from his massive stack of documents and grinned, “Hey, Dani! It’s going... great!” he announced proudly, appearing more cheerful than he’d been in weeks.

“That’s… great.” Dani repeated awkwardly, unable to find a better word to use. She nodded to indicate the fresh square of gauze on his cheek. “Is your face okay?”

“Yeah, just a little scrape,” he shrugged.

Dani nodded. They settled into a brief silence that was just shy of being uncomfortable. In that silence, Malcolm detected that she was acting... different.

“You okay?” he asked curiously.

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m... great,” Dani nodded, smiling falsely. She seemed embarrassed, or maybe a little nervous. Upset? She was difficult to read. Malcolm remembered that he never apologized for dragging her along for his chase the other day. But before he could open his mouth, Detective Powell asked, “Um… are you seeing someone?”

“No,” he laughed, not expecting that question. Apparently, JT liked to spread gossip. The profiler shouldn’t have been surprised. “No, I really _did_ just take a nap.”

Dani turned her head and squinted. “...What?”

Malcolm’s humored grin fell. “Did JT tell you about last night?” he asked, confused.

“No,” Dani answered, appearing equally confused. “What happened last night?”

“Uh….. nothing!” Malcolm chirped. “I mean, we went and talked with… Mr. Wheaton, but… uh…” He also squinted and turned his head, painting a cautious smile on his face. “Why did you ask if I was…?”

She quickly shrugged. “Just curious. Um. Wondered if you had plans for Friday.”

Malcolm wracked his brain to remember what was special about Friday. “Oh.” _Valentine’s Day._

“You know, if you were… taking off work, or something,” Dani elaborated.

“No,” Malcolm answered cheerfully. “Nope. I, uh… have no life! And _definitely_ no girlfriend. So… I’ll be working. For sure,” he nodded eagerly.

“Oh.” Dani seemed disappointed by that answer -- a reaction which he had not expected either. “Okay. Cool.”

Malcolm realized he might have just royally fucked up. Had Dani been asking because she’d hoped he’d take the day off to make plans? Specifically, plans that involved her? _Shit._

Before Dani excused herself, the profiler quickly asked, “What about you? Did you take it off?”

“Yeah, I did.”

_Fuck._

“Oh. Great,” he tried to keep his smile convincing. “Did _you_ have plans?”

“Just family stuff,” she shrugged with a roll of her eyes.“You know how it is.”

Malcolm tried to prevent a wince from crossing his face. “Yeah. Sure. Family stuff.” But he smiled to pardon her for assuming his family did _anything_ normal on holidays.

Dani made a face and slunk away.

After Detective Powell left, Malcolm held his head in his hands and internally scolded himself for being such an idiot. That was one of the most awkward conversations he’d ever had, and that was saying something. He had no shortages of those under his belt. It was no wonder he was single. Very, very single, despite what JT believed.


	8. Chapter 8

A chilly, pelting rain rapped against the metal dumpsters and hard concrete of the alleyway, whose confining walls naturally amplified the sound. It was akin to the sound of a thousand tiny, unseen street percussionists who were convening for a concert. But the thunderstorm had driven everyone indoors, so the music of nature went unappreciated.

Well, almost everyone.

A man rounded the corner, his stride brisk, his shoulders hunched, and his hands stuffed deeply into the pockets of his hooded rain jacket. He looked up at the second floor of a pawn shop, where plastic sheeting cracked and whipped like banners in a wind that built in strength by the minute. The man reached for the handle of the back door, finding that it was locked.

Malcolm Bright looked around before knocking. He waited, but nobody answered. Knocking harder, he willed for his father to let him in. But again, he was left waiting. Perhaps he had been the first to arrive. Sighing, the profiler turned to press his back against the brick wall and decided to wait for a few minutes. A few minutes passed, and the rain started to permeate through his two-hundred and fifty dollar raincoat. Some raincoat. Shivering, he stepped away from the wall to glance around the corner, but nobody was coming.

The young man returned to the door and then studied the keyhole, predicting the size and style of the object which would unlock it. He examined the slightly damaged characteristics of the bricks around the door and felt for any loose pieces in the wall. Malcolm found what he was looking for, removing a chunk of hard clay to reveal a nook big enough to hide a key. Lo and behold, a key was certainly hiding there. He took it and unlocked the door, acquiring refuge from the storm. Inside, he called, “Hello?” and took off his raincoat before checking through the rooms of the small, abandoned commercial building. The old pawn shop was empty. His father was late. Again.

While he waited, the young man explored, picking through the drawers and minor rubble from the construction. He found nothing of great interest, save for some paper notices of ‘wet paint’ that were soiled and crumpled in the corner, and a roll of measuring tape that somebody had left behind. Eventually, Malcolm brushed the dust off an old, torn-leather bar stool and pulled it up to a counter top before taking a seat upon it. He tried to imagine what the building must have been like when it was thriving with buyers and sellers. If the majority of the profits had come from loans, guns, jewels, or drugs. If it had looked like a nice place once, or if it had always looked like a dump. It was difficult to imagine when all that was left of it was an empty shell.

The profiler could hear the rain increase its torrent outside, although the plywood covering the windows heavily muffled it. A dark wetness started to seep through the wood barricades, causing them to appear as if they were bleeding. The scent of moist sawdust and treated cedar perfumed the sheltered space.

Malcolm was done waiting. He pulled out his phone to text his father. But when he hit _‘send,’_ all that he received was a red _‘Error: Unable to send message.’_ It alarmed him. The profiler had never received that alert before. He tried to call, but the Nokia didn’t complete its first ring. The sound was abruptly silenced, like it had been choked off. A single angry _beeeeep_ followed, harsh and unpleasant to the ear. Similar, in fact, to that of a flatline in an EKG. The failed call ended itself, barring him from even leaving a voicemail.

Malcolm’s heartbeat quickened. He tried again but received the same brutal _beeeeep_ and a forced hang-up. His hands began to tremble. He waited, hoping that it was just a fluke that would correct itself with the passing of time. He watched the clock face on his watch before trying again, but the same errors taunted him, acting as barriers blocking him from reaching his father. Malcolm gnawed at his lips and pressed his knuckles against them as his mind ran wild.

Had The Surgeon been caught? If the police had been able to, they would have confiscated his phone and would have answered the call, so Malcolm could only assume that his father had destroyed his Nokia in the nick of time --assuming that he was considerate enough to eliminate his son’s incriminating evidence. But Malcolm doubted he was. If anything, Martin would ensure that the profiler was locked up along with him as a cellmate --would consider it quality bonding time-- _unless_ he was certain, or at least hopeful, that Malcolm would serve him better outside of prison as a rescuer.

 _Would_ Malcolm rescue The Surgeon if he was caught again? If he _did_ want to, would it even be possible?

The profiler checked his sleeker, newer smartphone. No missed messages there either. The NYPD would have told him if they’d found his father. Wouldn’t they? McLeod might not, but Dani and JT would, if they’d heard about it. But McLeod knew they were his friends, so perhaps he would keep the news from them. Perhaps he would keep the news from _Gil_ too, and the majority of the precinct, until his interrogation was over.

A low rumble echoed in the clouds above the pawn shop.

It wasn't difficult to imagine what that interrogation would look like. It wasn't difficult to predict what Lieutenant McLeod would ask, how his voice would boom like thunder as he asked it, and how The Surgeon would endure it all with a quiet, stubborn strength and condescending, humored smirk. It wasn't difficult to imagine how The Surgeon would take advantage of every small opportunity to test McLeod’s patience, and how the lieutenant would react when he was pushed far enough --how he would turn to violence when he would inevitably snap.

Malcolm startled out of his thoughts as the door burst open by what he thought, at first, was a strong gust of wind. But a man stumbled in and ripped off his soaked hood, sending rain droplets flying. They splattered against the wall, leaving dark patterns on the torn wallpaper.

“Oh, good,” Martin Whitly gasped. “You’re here.” He appeared both thoroughly drenched and thoroughly out of breath, but even the heavy deluge couldn’t weigh down the unruly curls in his hair. The black dye he’d used was starting to fade, giving his trimmed mane a slightly dusted look.

Malcolm’s internal thoughts echoed the relieved words his father spoke. The profiler let his fears subside, and frustration quickly replaced them. He’d been _worrying_ again, and proceeded to scold himself for his reckless lack of restraint on his emotions. “I tried calling you but it--”

“It’s dead,” The Surgeon muttered, tugging his ugly brown scarf free from around his neck.

“What?” Malcolm hissed.

“Phone’s dead, son,” Martin spoke up, tossing the accessory over the counter. Rainwater steadily ran down the sopping wet wool and dripped onto the floor. The man rubbed his hands together, cupped them to his bearded face, and exhaled a long hot breath over his frozen knuckles.

“Then _charge_ it!” Malcolm exclaimed in exasperation. He did not consider that a viable reason for his father to be unavailable to him.

“I, uh... can’t,” Martin hesitated. He breathed on his hands and rubbed them together again before explaining without remorse, “Lost the charger.”

Malcolm closed his eyes and sighed disappointedly. If the phone was at all _important_ to the idiot, he wouldn’t have ‘lost’ its source of life.

At his son’s overreaction, The Surgeon made a face, assuring, “I’ll get another cord tomorrow, it’ll be fine!”

Malcolm shook his head in disbelief and pulled his own charging cord out of his raincoat pocket. Unlike his father, _he_ valued the single connection they had to each other, and never allowed his device to fall below seventy percent. “Give me your phone.”

The Surgeon slowly did. Malcolm took the Nokia and plugged it into an open wall outlet, hoping the sketchy wiring wouldn’t burst into flame. He waited as the phone woke. “It’s a rule to answer immediately, remember?” he criticised. “A dead phone isn’t an excuse.” He was ordering the man to take that rule more seriously, and to take better care of their connection to each other.

Martin only responded with a joke as he unzipped his windbreaker. “You will make a _fantastic_ parent one day.”

The profiler shook his head to himself, unwilling to think about that. He was still _very_ single --probably always would be-- and he didn't know if he wanted a family one day anyway. He considered himself a terrible choice for anybody looking to ‘settle down,’ and he knew he would never achieve nor maintain a way of life that held any kind of normalcy.

As his father’s phone came back to life, Malcolm studied it. It was nearly identical to his. More scuffed up. A little dirty. He noticed there were no messages saved on it, nor any pictures. It seemed that The Surgeon was fastidious about deleting everything, and Malcolm knew it was to keep himself safe in the event that he was caught. It was a very cautious practice; erasing his tracks and cleaning up after himself, just as he’d always done. It was a small reminder that The Surgeon was very experienced with _hiding things._

“You’re over half an hour late,” the profiler murmured unhappily. He closed the Nokia and set it on the counter. It remained tethered to the wall as if chained by a short, black umbilical cord. Facing his father and folding his arms across his chest, the young man asked, “What took you so long?” like a spouse waiting on an unfaithful partner. There was a layer of disappointment in his voice, and an expression on his face that showed he expected to hear a lie in response.

“Had a bit of a hold-up at work,” Martin answered with a smile, ignoring his son’s sullen tone and eagerly playing the part of the lying, cheating spouse who was acting as if nothing was amiss. “And then there was traffic, and this storm, and... you know how it is.” Dr. Whitly shrugged out of his flimsy windbreaker, gently shook the rain off it, then tossed it over the counter beside his scarf.

Malcolm did not like the sound of that. “You never did tell me what your new job is.”

Martin gave him an innocent pout and then carefully began pulling off his wrangler jacket, which was damp and musty from the rain. “You never asked. You were too upset over your… mystery man.”

"Actually, I did," the profiler corrected confidently. He pulled out his own Nokia and found the message. "Two nights ago. Eleven forty-eight P.M." He held the phone forward to display his chat history. "I said, 'What's the job?' You answered with, 'Why don't you answer my question now?'"

Martin paused in his undressing and warily smirked. "You keep all our messages. How sentimental."

"It's so you can't gaslight me," Malcolm smirked back. "Like you just tried to do."

"I'd never!" Martin grinned, continuing to peel off his wrangler jacket. As he did, he lightly lectured, "You really shouldn't keep all those. What if someone got a hold of that phone? It'd get you in a heap of trouble."

Malcolm ignored his words, instead watching the way his father handled the denim article. He noticed the sway of a small weight in its pockets, and how the surgeon kept the openings of the pockets oriented upright as he tenderly folded and placed it on the counter beside his windbreaker.

"Speaking of the mystery man… I spoke with Corey Wheaton.”

“Oh? And what did he say?” Martin asked, his interest piqued.

“I’ll tell you,” Malcolm promised. “But first, give me that jacket.”

The profiler held out a hand.

Martin eyed it with a broad but nervous smile as if there was a candy in his son’s palm that was undoubtedly poisoned. “Why?”

“Because I asked for it,” Malcolm answered patiently.

“A great parent one day, indeed,” Dr. Whitly scoffed a curt laugh, but he picked up his jacket from the counter. He was in no rush whatsoever to walk it over. “Is it because you’re cold?” he joked. “It is rather _nippy_ in here.”

Malcolm waited, knowing the man was using humor as a shield, as usual. “Just curious.”

“Well, you know what they say about _curiosity,”_ Martin drawled, placing himself in front of the boy. “And _cats.”_

The profiler ignored the subtle threat under his father’s warning words. With a sarcastic friendliness, Malcolm smiled and challenged, “Do you have something to hide, Dr. Whitly?”

“...No, son,” The Surgeon answered gently, appearing charmed at the thought. He held out the jacket for him. _“Never,”_ he teased with a playful scrunch of his nose. A blatant, cruel lie.

Malcolm took the denim jacket. Inside its pockets, he found gum sticks and gum wrappers. A cigarette lighter. A couple of toothpicks. An old leather wallet that was duct-taped together and held a bus pass, some coupon clippings from a newspaper, and a fake driver’s license. The profiler pulled out the license and scrutinized it.

 _“‘Harold,_ Brown?’” He gave his father a look. “Really?”

“What’s wrong with ‘Harold?’” Martin whined defensively.

Malcolm put the card back into the wallet. It was a well-forged ID, and Malcolm had seen his fair share of them. He continued inspecting the dark blue fabric. There was a crusty dirt-like substance in certain places on the front, the bottom, and the edges of the sleeves. The substance was a light tan, almost grey color. It was also speckled at the bottom of his father’s plaid button-up shirt and on the shins and knees of his jeans as well. The storm hadn’t washed away _every_ mysterious trace of evidence from his clothes. The profiler laid the denim jacket over the counter and placed the wallet on top of it. His hand remained on the items. “Turn out your pockets.”

“What?”

“Turn out your pockets,” Malcolm repeated calmly. His steady gaze told his father that he wasn't going to open up and talk about what he had learned about the mystery man until he was satisfied with his inspection --and it was clear that this was going to be a very thorough inspection.

It was only fair. An act of karma.

Dr. Whitly dipped his head and lifted his brows. “...Are you serious?”

Malcolm nodded.

Dr. Whitly sighed with a small glimpse of his teeth and stared his son down, calculating a way around his demands. But there wasn't a way around it, no matter how hard he searched for one. Martin muttered bitterly. “This is ridiculous.”

“I thought checking me for a wire yesterday was ridiculous, but I let you do it anyway,” Malcolm shrugged, doing a poor job of preventing a smug look to cross his face.

“I don’t know what you expect to _find_ on me, son, but--”

Malcolm gave him a small smirk and ordered, “Just _do it,_ ‘Harold.”

The Surgeon glowered and then reluctantly did as he was told, emptying his pockets of lint, a wad of cash and a few coins totaling twenty-eight dollars and thirty-five cents, a pair of work gloves with holes wearing through the fingers, and a pack of cigarettes that was half-empty. He placed it all on the counter and turned his pockets inside-out, displaying their inner lining to prove they were empty.

Malcolm picked through the meager loot. “You took up smoking?”

“No,” his father answered grumpily, preaching, “It’s terrible for your lungs.”

“Then why do you have cigarettes and lighter?”

“For _other_ people who smoke,” Martin shrugged. “Easy way to make friends, offering someone a light --or a whole cig, if I’m feeling generous,” he explained with a bored tone, drawling, “Nicotine is practically a form of _currency_ around here.”

Malcolm eyed him suspiciously, then took out a seemingly-normal cigarette and examined it. Sniffed it, even. It smelled like a normal cigarette and looked like a normal cigarette --albeit not a perfectly-shaped, crisp, brand new one. It, like the others, was a little beat up but it didn’t look explicitly tampered with. Malcolm put it back and closed the pack.

“Did I _pass_ your little _inspection?”_ Martin grumbled.

“It’s not over, yet,” Malcolm informed him, like a TSA agent who was politely but authoritatively addressing a suspicious traveler. He added the items to the pile of his father’s things, which the profiler was hoarding upon an area of the counter that was very obviously _his._ He held out his other hand. “Give me your knife.”

The Surgeon didn’t move, and he didn’t smile.

Malcolm watched his father’s inner thoughts dance behind his abysmal pupils. They were thoughts that wondered if the profiler was bluffing, guessing, or neither. Thoughts that calculated if it would be wise to call his bluff, or to try to lie to him. Thoughts that were uncertain, thoughts that were guarded, thoughts that questioned. But most of all, thoughts that were manipulative in nature. Thoughts that were constantly searching for their next move, their next hiding place, their next meal.

Those inner thoughts were very far away, and very deeply buried, but they were there. If one looked hard enough --if they knew where to look and what to look for-- then one would see them. Malcolm knew where to look, and he saw them. He held his father’s gaze evenly, _daring_ him to claim that he didn’t have what Malcolm _knew_ he had.

Martin conceded their brief staring match with a bob of his head and a smirk that curled around gleaming teeth. “Alright, son,” he whispered. Martin drew his hand to his hip and lifted the edge of his shirt to pull out the object that was clipped to the inside of his waistband. “But it’s _not_ a knife,” he grinned, arguing technicalities. “It’s a _multi-tool.”_

The Surgeon didn’t hand it over. He rotated it, allowing Malcolm to see it while still keeping it securely in his own possession. The black metal dully gleamed in the harsh fluorescent light, but there wasn't much for the profiler to see. The tool was folded up, with all its little secrets tucked tightly away.

Malcolm continued to hold his hand out, and waited.

After a moment, Martin’s smile dimmed. He finally, slowly placed the object into his son’s hand.

Malcolm’s gaze lingered on his father’s face for a moment before he glanced down to open the tool. “A Leatherman,” he murmured. It was nice. Heavier than it looked. Not something cheap that one would find at the corner market. “That must have cost you a lot.”

“They do tend to jack up the prices on the black market,” Martin muttered. “Those crooks.” He nervously watched Malcolm unfold each component of the tool. “But I saved up for it.” He sounded like a child who had patiently compiled his allowance and birthday money to earn the toy, only to have a parent threaten to take it away.

The tool had a nail file, wire cutters at the base of strong pliers, a screwdriver --both flat head and Phillips-- and of course, a blade. More than one, in fact. With a small _click,_ Malcolm opened a serrated one and examined the steel. It was used, and showed some signs of wear and tear. But there was no evidence of blood that he could detect. No stains. No faint, lingering scent of iron.

“That model’s called _‘The Surge,’”_ Martin grinned playfully, clearly very attached to the tool. His smile wavered when Malcolm did not return one of his own. Malcolm continued to inspect the second blade, then the scissors. Dr. Whitly thoughtfully ran his tongue across the inside of his bottom lip before attempting to prompt his son to move on. “Soooo? What did our dear friend _The Carousel Killer_ have to say?”

Malcolm wasn't done yet. “What’s on your clothes?” he asked, transferring his merciless gaze from the tool to his father.

Dr. Whitly looked down and scratched at some of the dirt on his shirt with his nail. “Oh. Just. Spackling. Or grout. I used both today.”

Malcolm’s gaze grew less merciless. He figured he was likely telling the truth. “At work?”

“Yes,” Dr. Whitly smiled, “I work a construction job.”

“Construction? Like...” Malcolm gestured around them, _“This?”_

“Yes,” Martin answered, copying his gesture. _“This_ was one of our large-scale projects that had to be put on hold due to some... _unforeseen circumstances,_ and now we’ve moved on to a few smaller, residential jobs,” he explained. It was nothing that was at all relevant or important, in his mind, and he was eager to move on to the exciting part of their discussion.

“‘We?’” Malcolm echoed curiously. In the profiler’s mind, this was _very_ relevant and important information. While Malcolm was primarily invested in his case, he was equally hungry for more information about the mysteries of his murderous father.

Dr. Whitly smiled with a bright sarcasm. It was an expression that said _two_ could play at Malcolm’s subtle game of give and take. “Tell me about your visit with Mr. Wheaton,” he asked again, referring to the convict as if he was an old friend. “How is he doing? Enjoying prison?”

Malcolm supposed that his inspection was complete, and that they could continue with the business at hand. “He said that a few weeks ago, somebody spoke to him at a bar he frequents. A man with a ‘voice as rough as sandpaper,’” he explained, using the Leatherman to tap the pack of cigarettes that lay in his collection of The Surgeon’s belongings. “A heavy smoker. That man planted the idea in Mr. Wheaton’s head to make mom sneak in a ceramic dagger to stab you.” Malcolm folded up the multi-tool, but left one blade sticking out. He began to absent-mindedly play with it, slowly rotating and flipping it in one hand. “I think that man was the same person who I saw at the funeral.”

Dr. Whitly tried not to grow mesmerized by his son’s entertaining and rather impressive knife-spinning talents. “Why do you think that?”

“I have my reasons,” Malcolm murmured. “The point is, this mystery man intimately knows Claremont. He knew the details of its security, _and_ he knew the details of your transport that morning. He might have even personally known the guards he killed. Maybe he showed up at their funeral to get some closure. Or, to... enjoy the fruit of his labor,” the profiler shrugged grandly.

Dr. Whitly pulled over a bar stool of his own and took a seat at the counter. “Well… what if that was all Sterling’s doing?” he asked, quite literally playing 'The Devil’s' advocate. “He knows a bit about Claremont. Though, he only visited me a couple times.”

Malcolm countered his theory with more evidence. “Mr. Wheaton said that the man at the bar had a full conversation with him about Claremont. He answered his questions and told him exactly how the detectors worked. That’s not somebody who's relaying a message that Sterling _gave_ him to deliver. That’s someone with inside expertise.”

Dr. Whitly nodded, thinking. “You could be right.” His smile was a proud one.

Of course Malcolm was right. The profiler continued to casually fiddle with the Leatherman. He could tell that while his father enjoyed watching his fancy tricks, the man was still unsettled. He wanted to regain his stuff, but he was being very patient, waiting until Malcolm permitted him to reclaim his belongings. Malcolm wasn't planning on relinquishing his custody of them anytime soon. They were entirely out of his mind, and Dr. Whitly recognized that. The Surgeon tried to place them out of his mind too, to ease the agony of waiting. But it was difficult. Martin was an incredibly possessive person, and Malcolm knew that first-hand.

“Speaking of messages...” Malcolm looked over at the charging Nokia. “Where did you get the phones?”

“From an old friend.” Martin traced the cracks in the damaged counter top and waved a hand dismissively. “He does this _secret phone thing_ as a side hustle. It’s mostly for drug dealers, that kind of stuff.”

“In Scranton,” Malcolm identified. After his escape, his father had called him from just outside the city.

Dr. Whitly grinned at him. “Look at _you,_ piecing all the _clues_ together.” The twinkle in his eye spoke volumes of praise. “You’re like _Nancy Drew.”_

Malcolm rolled his eyes, knowing his father had only said such a thing to annoy him. They both knew Malcolm was much more akin to _Sherlock Holmes,_ or _The Caped Crusader._ Malcolm’s favorites, when he was young. “What’s your friend’s name?”

Dr. Whitly scoffed, “You’re not going to hunt _him_ down too, are you? I _promise_ he hasn’t killed anybody, and you have enough on your plate as it is.”

“This man knows you’re roaming free,” the profiler reminded, stating the obvious. How could his father be so careless?

The Surgeon smirked. “Oh, he’s not going to tell a soul. I made sure of it.”

Malcolm’s glare hardened, and he stopped playing with his father’s knife.

With a playfully dark whisper, Dr. Whitly gave him a useful tip, “Cowards are always easy to work with, if you _scare_ ‘em enough.” 

Malcolm wasn't amused by his father’s inappropriate delight for coercion and violence, but he let the subject go, uninterested in the phone guy anyway. Dr. Whitly gave away information about him too easily for it to be of any real importance. Inquiring further about that person would just waste time and serve as a distraction, diverting Malcolm from what he really wanted to know, and what Dr. Whitly really wanted to keep secret.

The profiler continued his probing, “Did Sterling send you to him?”

“No.”

“Sterling doesn’t know that you have that phone?” Malcolm predicted, gesturing to the charging Nokia again.

His father nodded. “Correct.”

“And Sterling doesn’t know that you and I met at the repair shop, either, does he?”

The question elicited a reaction from Dr. Whitly --elicited a flash of fear disguised by laughter. “No,” Dr. Whitly chuckled. “No, that was a little detour that John and I set up for you.”

Malcolm’s suspicions had been proven right. “You _were_ in contact with Watkins that day.”

“We passed a few notes, yes.” Dr. Whitly admitted with a smile. “Like when I let him cheat off my _exams_ in med school. He was always a _terrible_ student.”

“Why did you go behind Sterling’s back and risk _everything_ to send me to the repair shop?”

“Well…” Martin shifted in his seat, glancing to the wall behind his son to formulate his answer. He selected one of many invisible things written on that wall, and shrugged. “I wanted to see you again.” He chose a few more, but stared down at his hands. “And I wanted to… tell you the things that I told you. I wanted you to give me a second chance. A chance to have a real relationship with you.”

Malcolm stared at him, not moved in the least by his seemingly earnest explanation. “Are you sure it wasn't because you needed my help to free yourself from Sterling?”

Dr. Whitly focused on picking at the flaws in the surface of the counter, speaking carefully. “That... _was_ a... small, _small_ reason,” he admitted with a slight wince. 

Malcolm was not surprised.

“But that doesn’t make all the other reasons any less true!” his father professed, looking up at him and expressing heavily, “I _do_ want a relationship with you. I want us to find… some kind of _normal,_ you know?” he shrugged.

Malcolm was not convinced. He did not believe his father’s claims -- _and_ he did not believe that they’d ever be able to achieve something ‘normal’ between them, even if they both genuinely tried to. It would be a foolish thing to hope for, and he would not allow himself to hope for it.

Dr. Whitly sent a gentle gaze into his son’s cold, hard eyes. But Malcolm’s walls were up. His defenses fortified. There was no way around them, and Martin knew he would not be allowed inside. Perhaps, never again. He appeared disheartened and turned his attention back to the counter top between them, murmuring quietly, “...While we still can.”

Malcolm tried not to let those words affect him, but they did. He did well not to show it, at least.

They sat in silence for a few moments. It was a pathetic, miserable silence, filled with a stubborn lack of desire to break it --from both men.

Malcolm was helpless to the thoughts that had been planted in his head. His father had just expressed that he didn't expect this to last, for one reason or another. He didn't have faith that this could work, that _they_ could work --together. He still believed that he would lose his son, one way or another. In a way, Malcolm was determined to prove him wrong. In another way, he was already long gone. And no matter how much he might secretly _want_ to ‘go back’ to his dad, he couldn’t. He _wouldn’t._ He was doing this --being here with him, working with him, _not_ turning him in-- for one reason, and one reason only. To find the killers of those fallen men, and bring them to justice.

Malcolm broke the silence. “How did you pass notes to Watkins without Sterling knowing you two were in touch?”

Dr. Whitly glanced up at him, then over to the Leatherman he still held in his hand. Malcolm did not budge under his subtle, pleading look. He was not giving that weapon back. Not yet. He was debating giving it back at all.

The Surgeon sighed, knowing he would not win this stand-off. He wanted his Leatherman back, and if he had to continue revealing intimate details to earn it, then he would continue revealing intimate details. “Sterling arranged for John’s mail to be forwarded to him at Riker’s. But John was only allowed to receive letters from his dear, sweet nana.”

“You disguised your letters as hers.” Malcolm turned over the multi-tool in his hand and gazed at it, appearing to be slowly falling in love. It felt good in his hand. So good, he just might keep it after all.

Dr. Whitly concealed his nervousness with a smirk. “I even told him to eat his vegetables.”

“John’s one of the people who will be at that meeting, isn’t he?” Malcolm guessed. “He’s part of all this.”

His father made a face and said, “No, I think John’s purpose has been… _fulfilled._ As far as Sterling is concerned.”

“And what was his purpose?” Malcolm asked, his attention on his father.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Martin carefully smiled. “It was to send your team to a very explosive, _dead,_ end,” he described, emphasizing each word.

Malcolm heard him loud and clear. His team wasn't meant to survive the bombing at the junkyard. “You knew that was going to happen,” he muttered. Yet another suspicion confirmed.

“...Yes,” Dr. Whitly admitted softly.

Malcolm was starting to grow upset, but he kept himself under control. “Why would Sterling plan for John to send me there, if I was the _one thing_ he had to keep _you_ under his thumb?”

Dr. Whitly stared at him for a while, then supposed, “Well... _perhaps…._ ” He debated continuing. This was something he really _shouldn’t_ be telling his son. But he wanted his knife back.

Malcolm snapped an impatient, “What? Perhaps what?”

 _“Perhaps…_ the pyrotechnician he hired was... _watching.”_ Dr. Whitly dipped his head, giving him a pointed look, then added with an ease of his hand, _“Theoretically.”_

Malcolm waited, and stared.

Dr. Whitly reluctantly finished, “And... was instructed to press the big red button when _you weren’t_ in the line of fire.”

Malcolm blinked. If that was true, then it meant that if the profiler would have been _with_ Gil and his team, then Gil and his team would have been safe. The pyrotechnician wouldn’t have pressed the red button and killed those six officers. But since the profiler was not on site, the bombs had gone off. Malcolm looked down at the counter top, torn up about that new piece of information. 

“That’s what I was… _reassured,_ anyway,” Dr. Whitly grumbled.

“Did you know who the pyrotechnician was?”

“I did not,” Dr. Whitly answered. He glanced over his son’s forlorn features. “And I did not _trust_ him to do his job right, either.”

The profiler looked up.

Dr. Whitly held his gaze.

Neither of them had very many walls up, at the moment.

Martin’s voice was soft. “That was another reason why I wanted you to come to the repair shop, Malcolm.”

Perhaps that had been the greatest reason of all. To make _sure_ his son wasn't caught in the blast.

Malcolm broke their eye contact, conflicted. He wanted to believe that his father was lying. That he was just saying all this to earn compassion points, which Malcolm refused to award him. But if Dr. Whitly _wasn't_ lying… then his efforts to protect him had ensured six people’s deaths, and Malcolm couldn’t possibly _attempt_ to feel gratitude when that much weight pressed on his conscience. He knew it didn’t press at all on Martin’s. The world could burn for all he cared, and he would laugh --as long as his son was free of the flames.

“Though, I don’t think we’re going to see anymore of _him,_ whoever he was,” Dr. Whitly murmured. “Like John, I think the pyro’s purpose has been fulfilled.” 

That did not console Malcolm. He hated to think that that man may have gotten away with murder. Maybe that was hypocritical of him. “How-- how did you have access to that veterinary clinic?” Malcolm asked, his voice not quite as strong and steady as it was before. He should have cleared it before he spoke.

Dr. Whitly smiled fondly at him, knowing he was avoiding his feelings by trying to concentrate on work instead. “You are _full_ of questions today, aren’t you?”

Feeling very tired, disheartened, and upset, Malcolm answered bitterly, “Always am.”

“That’s not important,” his father assured him, referring to the clinic. He gestured to himself and emphasized, _“I’m_ not important, Malcolm.” As far as he was concerned, the profiler had been asking the wrong questions. “And neither is the pyro. What’s important is your _mystery man,”_ Martin reminded him. “The one connected to Claremont, the one who put the idea into Corey’s head to have your mother stab me, the one who was the driver of the van --and, _supposedly,_ the one who showed up at that funeral.”

 _“And_ whoever was in the back of the van with you,” the profiler added, searing a glare at The Surgeon. “Are you going to tell me _anything_ about the man who released the carbon monoxide?”

“I can’t.”

Malcolm’s glare simmered. “You sure about that?”

Dr. Whitly made a disappointed face, but he did not break under the heat of his son’s angry stare. “Very.”

“You can’t tell me anything at _all?”_ the profiler prompted, inviting his dad to deliver some kind of sly message. “Not even--?”

“No,” Dr. Whitly finalized.

Malcolm rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Dr. Whitly tried to console him. “It’s for the best, son.” He squinted with a small nod. “Trust me.”

The profiler felt sick hearing that from him.

After some thought, Dr. Whitly leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If you knew… _why_ I couldn’t tell you about him, then you would agree.”

The profiler studied his choice of words. _Why._ The _‘why’_ mattered. “Is it because of Sterling’s threat?”

Ever so slightly, Martin made a face and turned his head as if he wanted the profiler to elaborate on that question.

Malcolm did. “Because it would put me in danger?”

“No,” Dr. Whitly answered plainly.

“It’s because of a different reason,” Malcolm translated. “A different threat.”

The Surgeon gave a slow, cautious nod.

Malcolm thought about what that secondary threat could be. But the truth was, he had _no clue_ what it could be, and it only caused him more stress. Dr. Whitly noticed his breathing change and knew his blood pressure was rising. “One killer at a time, son. You don’t need to worry about him. Worry about your mystery man,” he repeated.

 _"Why_ do you keep saying that?” Malcolm asked with a spark of exasperation.

"Because he’s the one we don’t _know enough about,”_ Martin urged.

“He’s the one _YOU_ don’t know enough about,” Malcolm corrected, raising his voice. _“_ **_I_ ** don’t know enough about _either_ of them!” He accusingly pointed the multi-tool at his father and seethed, “If I knew everything you did, then I would have caught these people by now!” In a burst of frustration, the profiler loudly clapped the object down onto the counter, but kept his hand over it.

Dr. Whitly remained calm, murmuring, “Malcolm. You are overwhelmed, and your emotions are controlling you.” It was a gentle reminder that he should strive for the opposite.

The profiler set his jaw and glared at the counter, noticing he’d made another small crack in the cheap material. He wasn’t ashamed about it. He started picking at it like his father had been doing to the larger ones earlier.

“You are not alone in this. We are a team. Remember?”

“Are we?” the profiler snapped. “Are we, really? Because I don’t feel like we are.” His anger grew as he vented. “I am _not_ an informant to you. You are an informant to _me,_ and I need you to tell me _more!”_ He threw his free hand up in the air. _“_ God, _why_ am I even keeping you around?”

Martin answered with a tiny, teasing smile, “Because you love me.”

 _“No,_ I _don’t!”_ Malcolm yelled.

Martin’s smile crept away.

The profiler took a large breath and reigned in his emotions. He changed his response to, “That’s not the reason,” but he didn’t exactly take back what he’d said. “The reason is because I need your _help_ to solve this case. And if you’re _not_ going to help me, then I have _no_ reason to keep you.”

Dr. Whitly looked down at his hands again. He’d been fiddling with them for quite some time, massaging his knuckles and picking at his nails. An old habit he’d formed in Claremont, as there was only so much one could occupy themself with when their wrists were bound. He noticed he was practicing the old habit and stopped. Throwing one hand up, he argued, “I _am_ helping you.”

Malcolm shook his head. The Surgeon was not pulling his weight in this case, and the profiler was peeved enough to consider giving up on Martin’s ‘help’ completely. “I need more from you.” More communication, more information, more commitment, more obedience. More trust.

Dr. Whitly heard his unspoken demands, and answered softly. “I am giving you everything I can give, Malcolm. I can’t give you more.” After a pause, he added, “Not right now.”

Malcolm stared at his father. He was telling him that more _would_ come, in time.

John’s voice echoed in the profiler’s head. _‘It takes time to develop trust. Your dad taught me that.’_

Malcolm and his father had lost so much time together. Had lost so much _trust_ in each other. Wounds of that depth couldn’t heal overnight. Missing time of that length couldn’t be regained in the blink of an eye. They had to work to repair whatever remained between them. They had to be patient, and cautious. 

The Surgeon _was_ being cautious. He was withholding certain bits of information from his son to protect him. He was telling him only what he could afford to tell him. He wasn’t being a control-gripping bastard. He was simply being careful. For his son’s sake.

Malcolm needed to be patient. They _were_ getting closer to solving the case. Bit by bit. They were making progress, even if it was much too slow for the profiler’s taste.

Dr. Whitly smirked as he watched his son’s inner thoughts dance behind his scrutinous pupils. Those inner thoughts were very far away, and very deeply buried, but they were there. If one looked hard enough --if they knew where to look and what to look for-- then one would see them. Dr. Whitly knew where to look, and he saw them. “Everything’s going to work out, son.” he smirked, repeating what Malcolm had reassured him yesterday. It wasn’t meant to be a mockery. It was meant to be a reminder.

Malcolm didn’t allow himself to appreciate his father’s reminder. He was reluctant to agree with him, even though the sentiment was originally his own. “Yeah,” he half-heartedly muttered. “It is.”

There was a space in the conclusion of their conversation where it would have been appropriate for Malcolm to thank Dr. Whitly for his help --what little he gave him. For talking to him, for filling in some gaps of information, at least. But Malcolm did not thank him. Instead, he stood up from his bar stool and relinquished the pile of his father’s possessions by abandoning it, stepping over to where he’d discarded his two-hundred and fifty dollar raincoat.

After Malcolm left the counter, Dr. Whitly glanced at his things. But he did not reach for any of them.

As the expensive raincoat settled on Malcolm’s shoulders and he fastened the first buttons, his father’s voice gave him pause.

“Son.”

Malcolm turned to face his father. 

“I need that for work,” Dr. Whitly informed him with a forgiving tone, as if he was willing to believe that Malcolm had innocently _forgotten_ about the very important object he still had possession of. The Surgeon held out a hand, and waited.

Malcolm did not hand over the multi-tool. It remained hidden somewhere on his person, but Dr. Whitly knew he had it. His calm, cool stare _dared_ his son to refuse to return it. The profiler held his gaze with a steady, stubborn strength. He did not like that word. _‘Work.’_

“For the _construction job,”_ Martin elaborated pointedly.

Malcolm hesitated a few moments longer --not only to test his father’s patience, but also because he was genuinely conflicted about if he should return the weapon or not. Everything inside of him screamed for him not to. 

But finally, he extended his arm.

He placed the multi-tool into his father’s waiting palm. The Surgeon’s hand curled to wrap around it, but Malcolm did not let go of the Leatherman, despite the uncomfortable feeling of his father’s icy fingers overlapping his.

They both held it for a moment, staring at each other, until Dr. Whitly shattered the tense moment with a beaming smile. _“Malcolm,”_ he purred a teasing warning. “Would you be giving me that look if this thing _didn’t_ have a blade?”

“It has _two_ blades. _And_ scissors,” Malcolm corrected.

“I’m not going to use them,” Martin promised. “On people,” he elaborated, then made a face, “Unless I _have_ to.”

Malcolm did not think he was being funny. But he let go of the weapon and took his hand away.

Dr. Whitly smiled in triumph and admired the tool for a moment.

“Self defense counts.”

He looked back up at his son. “Counts?”

“As killing,” Malcolm specified. “Meaning; it’s not allowed.”

Dr. Whitly coated his disbelief with a laugh. “You’ve _got_ to be joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

No, it did not.

“Malcolm, be _reasonable!”_ Dr. Whitly whined. “It’s a God-given _right_ for one to defend himself! It’s human _nature!_ It’s in the _constitution!”_

None of those things applied to the ex-serial killer in this case. All that applied was Malcolm’s law. “I have set rules for you, and you are going to _follow_ those rules if you want this to continue.”

Dr. Whitly blinked, then laughed again --though, this time, it was clearly a false one. “So you’re saying that if some… _psycho_ comes at me with a _bigger_ knife, doped up on _God_ _knows_ what-- you expect me _not_ to protect myself?”

“That is correct,” Malcolm nodded.

Dr. Whitly asked with a spark of exasperation, “What if he _kills_ me?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Then I’ll know _you_ didn’t kill _him.”_

That hurt. Martin wasn't used to being hurt by mere words. Words were silly weapons --weapons that he’d learned to use against others while remaining immune to them himself. But he was not immune when it came to his son’s hurtful words. Dr. Whitly hesitated to craft a weak smile, hoping that Malcolm was pulling his leg, or playing some sort of trick on him. Bluffing, or lying --telling him _anything_ but the truth. “You don’t mean that.”

Malcolm smiled back. A cruel and heartless look lied in his eyes. “Oh, I assure you, I do.” 

A cold shock settled in The Surgeon’s bones, replacing all of his humor, denial, and confusion.

“Until tomorrow, Dr. Whitly.” Malcolm moved to the door and pulled his hood over his head. “Keep the charger.” He was gone without another word, leaving his father to sit alone in the abandoned pawn shop with only the company of the overhanging storm, the chilly, pelting rain that poured from it, and the weighty knife in his hand.


	9. Chapter 9

Solitaire was not a game that required a prodigious amount of skill, yet it was indisputable that Mr. David was a master at it by now. A spread of well-used playing cards were laid out nicely on the folding table beside his chair. The man was nearly finished with a deck when a visitor was allowed into the hall with an electronic buzz of the heavy door.

Mr. Bright strode in with a smile that was identical to his name. “Hi again.”

“Malcolm,” Mr. David greeted with a dull curiosity.

“You’re probably sick of seeing me, aren’t you?” the profiler winced apologetically, holding a pair of manila folders.

Mr. David shook his head with a calm, slow blink of his eyes. “Not at all.”

Malcolm smiled and glanced to the end of the hall, wondering if a new patient had been moved into his father’s old cell. Evidently, that wasn't the case. He could still see the bookshelves and desk behind the old glass. Everything was just as The Surgeon had left it. “What are you... guarding?”

“Nothin.’” Mr. David mumbled. “I’m on break.”

“Oh.” Malcolm’s smile faded.  _ The man spent his breaks here, of all places?  _ The profiler moved on, renewing his optimistic attitude. “Well, perfect timing, then.” He stepped closer, holding the manila folders to his chest like he was about to ask a busy celebrity to autograph them. “I have some more questions, if you don’t mind.”

The guard shrugged and glanced back at his game of Solitaire. “Not like I’m doing much anyway.”

Malcolm proceeded. “Last time, I asked you about friends. This time, I'm asking you about enemies. Did those four guards have any history of... not getting along with another employee? Specifically, one of these two people?” He held out the folders, which contained the images and generic info sheets of the two former guards whom he’d whittled down from his search for potential suspects.

Mr. David looked confused as he took the folders. “Of ‘not getting along’ with ‘em?”

The profiler nodded.

Mr. David still looked confused.

Malcolm explained, “We have reason to believe the killer was a former employee of Claremont. Someone who knows the intricacies of Claremont’s security and patient transfer. Someone who was possibly fired, and might have a grudge against the institution, or against one or more of the four guards who worked here.”

Mr. David laid the folders gently over his game of Solitaire and started looking through them.

“We also have reason to believe he was a heavy smoker,” the profiler added. “Had a voice ‘like sandpaper.’”

“‘Like sandpaper,’ huh?”

Malcolm nodded again. “These two men fit the profile.”

“Well, I never met this one,” Mr. David gave him one of the folders back. “And I don’t know nothin’ about this one having any issues with anybody.” He shook his head and gave the second folder back. “Maybe you could try talking to the Chief of Security.”

Malcolm hid his disappointment with another false smile as he accepted the folders back. “That was my next stop. Thank you for your time,” he nodded.

But Mr. David wasn’t finished. Before Malcolm turned away, he advised, “There’s someone else you might want to consider.”

“Talking to?” Malcolm asked, confused.

“Investigating,” the guard clarified. He pointed to the folders. “Based on the kind of person you’re describing, I’d suggest you look into a man by the name of Scott Talbot.”

Malcolm remained where he stood. Curiously, he asked, “Why do you suggest that?”

“He had a voice ‘like sandpaper.’ He knew all about the security of this place. And he was fired, ten years ago.” Mr. David listed. “Though if you want  _ my _ opinion, he should have never been hired here in the first place.”

Malcolm pulled out his notepad and pen. “Tell me about Mr. Talbot. Why was he fired?”

“Because he killed somebody.”

The profiler blinked. “He…  _ what?” _

Mr. David planted his elbows on his knees and leaned on them. “It shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone. That man had issues.” He rubbed his hands around each other as if he was thoroughly washing them of the memories that resurfaced in his head. “I remember one time when we were in a group therapy session, a fight broke out between a couple of patients. Scott’s, and another guard’s. Protocol said the rest of us were to stay beside our  _ own _ patients, not let it escalate.”

“Your dad was never a problem when it came to getting physical with others, and I knew he’d stay put. So I stepped in to help the other guards break up the scuffle. I pulled one man off the other. We separated the two of ‘em, everything was nearly under control... but then Scott started beating the living daylights out of his patient.”

“There was this...  _ fire _ in his eyes,” Mr. David recalled. “A burning, inextinguishable  _ anger _ . I remember being a bit scared, to be honest, and there ain’t much that can scare me. I’ve seen some shit.”

Malcolm attentively listened to everything the security officer said, as well as everything he didn’t say. He watched the older man’s eyes as if they were television screens that displayed the visual details of the memories.

“It was harder to break  _ them _ up than the two guys who had started the fight. It took  _ three _ of us to get Scott to stop, and by the time we did, his poor patient had to be rushed to the hospital.”

“Did his patient die?” Malcolm asked.

“No. He had a concussion, his nose never looked the same, and had to wear a couple of casts for a while, but he lived,” Mr. David muttered. “There were other incidents like that. Times when he would get too heated, and use unnecessary force. He’d get this  _ adrenaline _ rush --this  _ high _ off of dominatin’ people.” 

Mr. David looked at his hands as he massaged them. “Scott was scolded for his actions, sometimes, but it wasn't enough. He didn’t change, and he wasn't sorry. He claimed it needed to be done. Said he was teachin’ them a hard lesson. Believed that making an example out of people would prevent others from acting out.”

“They were just excuses. Everybody knew it, but they turned a blind eye. Some of the others even liked to watch. Found it entertaining, or somethin’,” he scoffed, disgusted with the idea. “Truth was, Scott liked inflicting pain. He was volatile, and I didn't much respect his methods of ‘establishing order,’ as he called ‘em.”

The guard paused for a few moments.

“One day….” Mr. David paused again, then looked up at the profiler and managed to say, “One day I glanced at the schedule and saw that Scott was assigned to your dad on my day off.”

Malcolm rubbed his thumbs across the soft paper texture of the manila folders.

“I didn't have a good feelin’ about that,” Mr. David muttered, looking back down at his hands. “So I came in that day. Early morning, before Scott got here. When he showed up, I kept my opinions to myself and simply told him there was no way I was lettin’ him in that cell. He ordered me to leave, and I said ‘no.’ He went to our supervisor and our supervisor also told me to leave. I said ‘no.’ Supervisor said I ain’t getting paid for that shift and I said ‘That’s fine, but I’m not leaving.’”

“Supervisor gave somebody else the day off and sent Scott to cover for  _ his _ patient instead. Six halls down,” he gestured solemnly.

“Scott was so mad when he left, I thought he was gonna throw a fist at me. But he didn’t. He stormed off, and I spent the next twelve hours right here, watchin’ that door like a hawk.” He looked over to the door that Malcolm had passed through a few minutes ago. “Before I knew it, the red lights came on and the sirens started blaring.”

Malcolm knew those lights and sirens well. He’d never forget the heavy sense of doom that they brought to these halls.

“A patient had died,” Mr. David mumbled. “Six halls down.”

The guard remained rather placid throughout the retelling of his tale, but Malcolm could detect the slight nuances in his tone, the hints of bitterness and depression in his demeanor. “Scott said he’d killed him in self defense, but that wasn't true, and it didn’t take the police long to figure that out. Scott wasn't very good about cleaning up after his mess.”

Another pause, and Mr. David shook his head. “There was blood everywhere in that cell.”

Malcolm glanced down at the folders in his hands. That was what he had feared his father would do; kill someone and claim it was in self defense. That was why he forbade it. He couldn’t afford to leave his father  _ any _ opportunity to get away with murder, in case he would take it.

“The higher-ups did everything they could to prevent a PR nightmare, and I think they succeeded. Nobody ever saw it in the news. But Scott was put behind bars, where he belonged, and we never heard from him again,” Mr. David concluded.

Malcolm spoke up with a quiet voice. “You saved him.” The profiler didn’t attempt to conceal his very mixed emotions as he winced at the security officer. “You saved my dad.”

Mr. David clearly didn’t feel like a hero. “I don't know about that. Sometimes I think if I hadn’t done what I did, Scott woulda never been so mad that day, and things might have been just fine.” The guard sighed. “And that poor man wouldn’t have died.”

Malcolm gave him a kind, empathetic, understanding look. “You can’t control what other people do,” he eased, relaying the message that Lieutenant Arroyo had given him just a few days prior. “And you are not obligated to feel guilt for other people’s actions.” 

Mr. David’s lips formed a very rare and very small smile. But it wasn't because he was comforted by the young man’s words. It was because he found a gentle humor in the irony of them. “Look who’s talking.”

The profiler was struck by that. But it was true that it was hypocritical of him to say those things and not follow his own advice. Malcolm was not obligated to feel guilt for the terrible things his father did during his blissfully ignorant childhood. He did not have to constantly weigh the lives he saved against the lives his father had stolen. He did not inherit the collection of his father’s corpses. He was not required to attempt to make up for his father’s crimes by chasing down other criminals.

But he’d chase them down anyway.

It was what he was good at.

And he enjoyed it.

“Does Martin know you did that?” Malcolm asked, then corrected, “Or,  _ did _ he know?” The story was that The Surgeon was likely dead. It was a story he had to preserve.

“No,” Mr. David stood up from his chair with a long sigh. “He was asleep when I confronted Scott, and I never told him about it.” He cracked his back and looked over to the empty cell, whose red door was open, and waiting. The guard stepped over to it, and Malcolm followed. “Speaking of your dad….”

They hovered in the doorway and took in the sight of the quiet room. The sun shone through the high windows, but it did not feel warm inside. The cot hadn’t felt the presence of a body in over a week, and therefore the thin blanket and pillowcase remained cold and fresh from the wash. The books were eager to don a layer of dust to display their neglect, and the desk chair’s hinges --which usually uttered a small creak when they were lightly exercised by Martin’s playful swivel-- were stiff in dormancy.

“He may be, uh…  _ gone, _ but he’s not  _ officially _ pronounced ‘dead,’ so… this is all in a bit of a limbo,” Mr. David muttered. “But in the case he  _ does _ pass, this has all got to go.” He looked at the young man. “So, you wanna take it? Or….” he hesitated to ask, “Do you think there’s a chance he’s coming back?”

Malcolm hesitated to answer. That was a very complicated question.

On one hand, Malcolm hoped his father never did come back to this place. The only scenarios where that would happen was if Malcolm found fresh blood on his hands, and  _ ensured _ the man returned to his cell-- or if somebody else ever caught The Surgeon, and then Malcolm would never know if his father would have been able to do what he vowed to do; live a life without bloodshed. He would never know if they could have established some sort of relationship with each other outside of prison.

On the other hand, Malcolm missed having his father where he could easily find and see him. Not to mention where he could easily avoid him, too. Here, Martin was restricted. Confined in one spot. Here, there was no chance of him breaking his promises or taking another life behind the profiler’s back. Here, the monster was caged, and under complete control.

Here, he had something akin to a home.

But The Surgeon was not here anymore. Malcolm knew that even if his father did go into custody again, he wouldn't be in it for long. The legal system would quickly turn him over to the executioner, and even the great Everett Sterling couldn’t save him in that case. No matter what the future held, Martin was not returning to this cell to stay. There was no reason to keep his possessions there.

The problem was, what the hell was Malcolm going to do with all of it? The thought of keeping his father’s highly detailed anatomy drawings was an unsettling one. It felt sinful, and it sent a chill crawling through his skin. Yet he found himself internally accepting the fact that they now belonged solely to him. The furniture was  _ not _ going in his apartment, and it was  _ not _ going in his mother’s house, and he doubted Ainsley wanted any of it either. It didn’t match her minimalist, modern sense of style. If their mother had any say in the matter, she’d promptly arrange for it all to be burned to cinders, or thrown in a landfill. Somehow, Malcolm wasn’t eager to allow that to happen, either.

He supposed he’d donate it all. The books were in fairly good condition, and they were good books. Studies on psychology and the human body. Nonfiction hardbacks about economics and risk vs. reward strategies. A few historical manuscripts and speeches from American, British, and World history. Classical novels and riveting autobiographies. Anthologies of various poetry. Shakespeare and Walt Whitman.

The profiler even found a copy of  _ ‘The Count of Monte Cristo.’ _

He affectionately touched its spine. It was nearly identical to the copy his father read with him when he was a kid.

“Malcolm?”

The young man glanced back at Mr. David, who was still standing by the door, and who was still waiting for an answer.

“I’ll-- I’ll arrange for someone to come pick all this up,” Malcolm answered, smiling in an apology for his distracted state. He glanced over at the blood stain that was permanently soaked into the deepest fibers of the rug beneath his feet. “Uh, but  _ that _ can go in the trash,” he chuckled nervously, pointing at it and stepping away from it. He was definitely  _ not _ keeping that rug.

“I figured,” Mr. David smirked.

Malcolm cast his glance over the bookshelves and desk again. It would be so strange to see this cell empty. It would be even more strange to have his father’s things. To have boxes upon boxes of his books and notes. Strangely, the more Malcolm processed it, the more Malcolm began to feel… slightly  _ happy _ about the thought of this cell being empty. In a way, his dad was moving out. Moving on to better places, one would hope. One who was foolish, and perhaps slightly deranged. But also, it felt as if his father was truly dead, and the profiler was picking out memorabilia to keep in a tradition of sentimentality. Malcolm could only find comfort in the fact that that was  _ not _ the situation, and he didn’t want to think about if that would ever  _ be _ the situation.

It was a complicated situation, riddled with equally complicated emotions. Mr. David shared in some of them. “I gotta say, it’s gonna be odd seeing this room bare again,” the guard echoed the young man’s thoughts. “Twenty years, your dad’s lived here. Nobody else has a cell like this.”

“They might repaint it,” Mr. David said. “Claremont’s trying to transition over to a  _ blue _ scheme now.”

Malcolm glanced at him, his interest piqued. “Blue, huh?”

Mr. David nodded.

Blue.

Blue, instead of red.

Malcolm looked down to the red line on the ground, which was no longer a terrible, sinister thing, and softly smiled. “I think that will look very nice.”


	10. Chapter 10

Based on the tree, flower, squirrel, fox, and cloud emojis that his father sent him (all in one text, thank the heavens,) Malcolm understood that his father wanted to meet at Fawkes Park that night. At five o’clock sharp, the profiler pulled in to a parking spot on the shoulder of Lark Street. A man was sitting in the exact same place Malcolm had waited two nights ago --at the picnic table under the sole pavilion of the park-- wearing a recognizable, black, hooded windbreaker and thick brown scarf. The consultant got out of his car, locked it with a press of a button on his key ring, and trudged over to the pavilion. 

“You actually showed up on time,” Malcolm remarked as he came to stand under the pavilion, avoiding some dripping raindrops as he passed the threshold between the land of the wet and the refuge of the dry. “I’m impressed.”

“Early, in fact!” Dr. Whitly gave a muffled chirp from beneath his scarf. He was wearing the same jeans he’d been wearing yesterday, except with more spackling, and/or grout freckling them. “I’ve been here for quite a while, actually.”

“Why did you want to meet out here?” Malcolm asked, glancing around the park to ensure they weren’t being watched by anybody. It didn’t appear that they were. No one else was in the park, and the few bodies who were walking along the surrounding streets were hurrying to wherever they needed to go under their ponchos and umbrellas. The group of drug-dealing teenagers was absent from their corner. The places where a couple of homeless people once slept were barren and empty, save for some plastic bags and other debris they’d left behind. The sharps container in the near distance was unaccompanied by any hovering opioid addicts.

“Why not? It’s a beautiful afternoon!” Dr. Whitly continued admiring the park from where he sat.

Malcolm didn’t think it was a beautiful afternoon. He thought it was a miserable, overcast, _frigid_ afternoon --soon to be night.

He glanced over at his father. Martin’s shoulders were tight, his legs crossed, and his hands deep in his pockets --with his arms pressed close to his body. The bags under his eyes looked a little darker than they had a couple days ago, and his nose was buried in his scarf, but there was a tired smile under there, too. Malcolm could tell. His father watched the world as if it was fascinating, taking in every inch of the sight before him, which would have appeared dull and boring to anyone else. Anyone who was _accustomed_ to seeing parks, and rain, and _grass_ everyday. Anyone who had _not_ been locked indoors for twenty years.

“Why didn’t you want to meet at the pawn shop?” the profiler emphasized, re-phrasing his question so it held the right words. Surely, it wasn't _only_ because Martin thought it was a beautiful day outside.

With a small measure of disappointment, Dr. Whitly muttered, “It was bought by another construction company.” He glanced sideways-- in the direction of their prior meeting spot-- but was careful not to turn his head and disturb the cocoon of warmth he’d wrapped himself in. “They picked up the key this morning.”

That was unfortunate, and slightly irritating, but there was nothing Malcolm could do about it. “Do you still have the charger I gave you?” he sighed.

“Yep.” Dr. Whitly patted his hand in one pocket.

“And the knife?”

Dr. Whitly’s eyes rolled to look up at his son. He didn’t give him an answer for a moment. When he did, it was a sarcastic one. “What do _you_ think?”

Malcolm unsheathed one hand from his overcoat pocket to extend his palm forward.

The Surgeon sighed. “Are you going to frisk me _every_ _time_ we see each other?” he asked.

Malcolm made a face and shrugged, “If I have to.”

Dr. Whitly’s eyes glared at him above his scarf. “I’m not bugging _you_ everyday about being _bugged_.”

“Can I please just see it?” Malcolm asked, lightly bouncing his awaiting hand. His tone told his father that if he fought against it any longer, it would only fuel the profiler’s suspicion.

Dr. Whitly surrendered and grumbled, “If it will make you _feel_ better.” He revealed the multi-tool from under his layers and handed it over.

Malcolm checked it for any signs of blood. Like before, there were no stains or any lingering scent of iron. The hinges were what he was _really_ looking at. A blade could be washed, but the tiny crevices in the hinges were what would harbor any grime. No matter how closely he inspected it, he found nothing that confirmed his fears. The tool was still clean. The profiler hesitantly gave the Leatherman back, and Dr. Whitly clipped it onto his waistband again.

Dr. Whitly cast a judgmental look at the young man, glancing over his face with a quick darting of his eyes. “Your cheek is looking... better,” he decided.

“Thanks,” Malcolm grumbled, taking a seat well out of his father’s reach, on the other end of the bench.

“As far as I can tell, anyway,” Martin mumbled, still peering at it from afar. “Are you keeping your sutures clean?”

“Yep,” Malcolm growled. He was not allowing his father to look at it again.

“They should have used tape,” The Surgeon murmured critically. “Are you taking antibiotics?”

“Dad.” Malcolm looked over, no longer avoiding his gaze. He lifted his brows and ordered with a look, “Stop.”

Dr. Whitly reluctantly stopped fussing. He shifted in his seat and muttered, “Must have been some pole.”

“I didn’t run into a pole.”

Dr. Whitly tilted his head to the side briefly, in place of some snarky or sarcastic remark.

Malcolm decided to set the record straight and admit, “I hit my head against my coffee table.”

“Oh.” Dr. Whitly looked over at his son as his mild concern renewed. “Well, why’d you do a thing like that?”

“I didn’t _mean_ to. I was--” The profiler took a breath, knowing what was coming. He didn’t want to have a whole discussion about it, but he explained curtly, “I was sleeping.”

Dr. Whitly listened.

“I get really bad night terrors. Um... lose control. I have to sleep with restraints so I don’t hurt myself.” 

Malcolm was clearly embarrassed about them, and he had plenty of reason to be. It was not a normal thing; requiring restraints to sleep. It was not a common thing, and it was --in no small part-- his father’s fault that Malcolm was like this. It was uncomfortable for the young man to talk about, especially to the person who’d caused him such psychological issues to begin with.

Martin remained silent, but he nodded.

After a few moments, just when Malcolm's embarrassment had started to soothe and just when he dared to be grateful that his father was not pushing it, or questioning him about it, or making fun of him for it, Dr. Whitly murmured an upbeat, _“Kinky.”_

Malcolm sighed and closed his eyes for a moment as he shook this head.

They sat beside each other with the picnic table at their back and the empty, drenched park stretching before them. Dr. Whitly didn’t seem eager to strike up another conversation or ask about his son’s case, and Malcolm wasn’t incredibly inclined to initiate a discussion either. Not after the one they’d just had.

Everything was still and quiet, save for the distant ambiance of traffic echoing on wet roads. The sound was dampened by the blanket of clouds above them --behind which a soft, source-less glow of light faded. Twilight colored the clouds in shades of greys and blues as the minutes ticked by. The vast layers of cotton shifted subtly, only noticeable if one watched them closely. The air was humid and smelled of fresh mist, as if God had lightly spritzed a terrarium where he housed his favorite critters.

Sparse raindrops plunked into the steel basins of the water fountains that were stationed on the sidewalk between the pavilion and the playset. The abandoned playset served as the centerpiece of their scenic view, uninviting and neglected. It stood erect and cold like a metallic gravestone that was eternally condemned to weather a never-ending storm. The wretched sight made one wonder if the playground would ever feel the touch of the sun’s rays or the welcomed abuse of a child’s tromping feet again.

Before long, Malcolm began to understand why his father thought this afternoon was so beautiful --even if it was gloomy, and melancholy, and not what most people could consider beautiful. They sat together for a few moments of silence, staring at the park from under their meager shelter as if they were attending some sort of funeral. For those few short, peaceful moments, it seemed that they were the only two people in the world.

Dr. Whitly pulled his scarf away from his face and sighed a deep, contented sigh, inhaling the cold air and exhaling a cloud of warmth from his lips. “I can’t remember the last time I was at a park with you,” he voiced merrily.

Malcolm continued staring at the abandoned playground. This one looked so tiny compared to the ones he used to run around on. Those ones had been much larger. At least, that was what he remembered. Maybe the truth was that they all were this size. Maybe they’d only appeared so big to him because he’d been so small, at the time.

“You always liked climbing the playset,” Martin smiled. “And Ainsley could never get enough of the swings.”

There were only two swings at this playset. The seats looked as if they’d been chewed on by a dog, and the chains were rusted. The playset that the Whitly family always used to visit had four swings, and they were in much nicer condition.

“You’d try to get to the very top. Like a little spider monkey.”

Malcolm looked at the highest point of the playset. It was a faded, plastic roof that capped a tower on the other side of the bridge --with cartoonishly large shingles etched into it, just like the plastic rooftops he’d climbed when he was young. Malcolm had always thought those shingles looked like dragon scales.

“It gave your mother a heart attack.”

Malcolm remembered the way she would scream at him. She had sounded like such a spiteful banshee of a woman, but he understood now that she had only been incredibly concerned about his safety.

“She made you promise not to do it anymore,” Dr. Whitly smirked. “And she made _me_ promise to make sure you kept your feet on the ground.”

Malcolm suppressed a smirk of his own, knowing that neither of them had a very good track record of adhering to their promises, especially the ones made to his mother. The thought was both humorous, and incredibly sad. The profiler’s smirk crumbled, distorted by shame.

“But I still let you climb, when it was just the two of us. You enjoyed it because it was like a puzzle.”

Malcolm looked down, unable to focus on the empty playset any longer. It caused him to recall too many memories. Memories of unrestrained laughter and joyful ignorance. Memories of the good old days, before the world broke beneath him, before his perception of perfection was shattered, and before his heroes became villains. They were memories that he felt too guilty about to look back on and appreciate.

“I helped you up, sometimes. As your spotter,” Dr. Whitly smiled, still staring at the playset with a sparkle in his eyes. He was not afraid of the memories. He clung to them, cherished them, and he felt no guilt or shame when he reflected upon them. “I helped you down, too. That was always the hardest part.”

“I taught you how to land on your own two feet,” he hummed slowly. “When you had to jump.”

Malcolm lifted his eyes to face his memories. He cast his guarded gaze over the small playground again, this time seeing it as the exact one he used to visit --with healthy, brightly-colored paint and a large swingset and two yellow slides that looked like bananas. And plastic rooftops that resembled dragon scales.

The bright sun glinted through the tall, strong oak trees that surrounded the park, closing it off from the skyscrapers and traffic of Manhattan. The park was an oasis. A hidden world of wonder and magic that was nestled in the center of an otherwise terrible, dark, crime-ridden universe.

Malcolm watched himself side-step along the exterior railings of the bridge and climb the entire structure, all the way to the very top of the tallest tower.

His father grinned, perhaps watching the exact same memory.

_'Dad!’_

_‘What’s wrong?’_

_‘I’m stuck!’_

Martin chuckled, set his sketchbook down, and stood up from the park bench to call up to the little monkey. _‘No, you’re not.’_

 _‘Where do I go, now?’_ the monkey called, perched upon a corner of the dragon-scaled roof and nervously looking for a way to undo the feat he’d accomplished.

_‘Down, silly. Jump.’_

_‘It’s too high.’_ Malcolm whined.

 _‘No, it’s not.’_ his father crooned with a grin. He moved closer, abandoning the sidewalk to step onto the bed of bark and wood chips that surrounded the playset. _‘You can do it, son.’_ he encouraged, his dark overcoat swaying behind him as he walked with his hands in his pockets.

Malcolm did not feel better about the height as his father came closer. The drop was well above his head, and his father was _super tall. ‘Can you just catch me?’_

 _'Well, I_ **_could...’_ ** Martin shrugged up at him. _‘But then what are you going to do one day when I’m not here to catch you?’_

Malcolm couldn't argue with that, but he was not interested in being taught a life lesson at the moment. He was in a spot of trouble, and he was kinda scared, though the last thing he wanted to do was admit it. His father always took pride in his bravery and the child didn't want to act like a baby and disappoint him.

He shifted, trying to calculate how he could perform some other maneuver, but there was no way around it. He’d put himself in a terrible position. He was either doomed to slip off and fall, or he had to decide to jump, like his father said. One option allowed him to remain in at least a _bit_ of control, and the other did not.

But he was afraid. He’d never jumped from this high before.

 _‘Dad, I_ **_can’t!’_ **he whined again, frustration disguising all other emotion.

 _‘Yes, you can,’_ Martin argued calmly, assuring, _‘I will never ask you to do something unless I know you can do it.’_

Malcolm knew he was not going to be allowed an easy way out of this, and pouted.

 _‘This is what you’re going to do,’_ his father explained. _‘You’re going to hold onto that ledge, and let your legs dangle. Then you’re going to take a deep breath and relax. You’re going to let go. You’re going to land with both feet at the same time --on the front part, not on your heels.’_

 _‘Don’t lock your knees. Let them bend, and drop into a crouch, like this.’_ He took his hands out of his coat pockets and tossed the dark fabric behind him as he lowered himself and touched his fingers to the loose bark beneath him.

Malcolm felt a little better now that he knew what to do, but he was still skeptical. _‘Is it gonna hurt?’_

Martin stood up and grinned in amusement. _‘A little, but you’ll be alright.’_

Malcolm appreciated his honesty, even if he didn’t like the answer. The boy pursed his lips thoughtfully as he measured the drop again. The longer he scrutinized it, the less afraid he felt.

_‘You can’t spend your whole life being afraid of getting hurt, son.’_

The child looked back at his father.

 _‘It’s going to happen,’_ Martin told him, then promised, _‘But you’re going to be just fine. I’m right here.’_

Malcolm measured the height again, his confidence growing. His dad was right, as always. Even if his jump went horribly wrong and he got _really_ hurt, his dad would be right there beside him, and he’d fix him up and make the pain go away. He was a doctor. That was what he did, and he was the best. He could fix anything.

_‘Now, do it.’_

Malcolm agreed. It was time to stop thinking about it, and just do it. _‘Okay.’_ He carefully shifted to the edge of the plastic roof, keeping his center of gravity low.

Gripping the edge tightly and slowly lowering his body to dangle from it, he made another thoughtful face.

_‘There you go, good.’_

All that was left to do was let go. But he didn’t. Another flash of fear struck through him as he hung there.

_‘Deep breath.’_

The boy inhaled a deep sigh through his little lungs, and his fear left on his breath.

Malcolm let go of the edge and dropped.

He felt a rush of air pass by as gravity hauled him to the ground, and time seemed to both slow and quicken. He felt suspended for eternity, but he met the end of eternity all too soon. He landed as his father said he would --it came quite naturally-- and though the force of the impact jarred through his legs, it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. It had been a dangerous and scary stunt, not to mention explicitly forbidden by his mother, but he’d survived and conquered the fall.

He sprang up from his crouch and shouted with a beaming smile. _‘I did it!’_

His father was beaming too. _‘Yes, you did!’_

 _‘Can I do it again?’_ the boy cried, already rushing back to the playset to scale the tower, thirsty to experience the thrill of falling once more.

With a grin and a chuckle, Martin allowed, _‘Sure. The more you do it, the better you’ll get at it.’_

Malcolm jumped from the tower until his legs were sore. He was not afraid of heights anymore.

* * *

The profiler blinked, and the memory restored into reality. The dejected, barren playset of Fawkes Park stood before them, and no sunlight shone through the dark clouds, which appeared to have only a few tears to shed tonight. It sounded as if a handful of tiny, half-sedated percussionists were tiredly rapping on the awning of the pavilion above them. Malcolm and his father listened to their music.

Eventually, the consultant broke their reminiscent silence. “I spoke with Mister David today.”

Dr. Whitly burst with fondness, “Aw, I _miss_ him. How _is_ he?”

“Fine,” Malcolm answered, making a face and shrugging. “No different than usual,” he lied.

“Good,” Martin smiled, his teeth gleaming beneath his furred lips. “I _like_ him,” he announced, still gazing at the playset contentedly.

Malcolm took out his smartphone and pulled up a photo to display. “Do you recognize this person?”

Dr. Whitly glanced over and cooed, “Ooh, is this your mystery man?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Do you recognize him?”

The Surgeon removed one hand from his pocket to extend it, asking for a closer look at the phone. Malcolm leaned to give the device to him. As Dr. Whitly brought it closer to his face, he murmured, “Well, as I said, I never saw the driver of the van, and I didn’t see who _you_ saw at that funeral...” Martin stared at the picture, squinting slightly. “But… no, I don’t recognize him.” He lowered the phone from his face and looked at Malcolm expectantly. “Who is he?”

“Scott Talbot.”

“Talbot. Talbot,” Dr. Whitly repeated the name, wracking his memory and squinting at the photo again.

“He was a guard at Claremont ten years ago,” Malcolm explained. “Mister David said that once, in a group therapy session, Scott’s patient started fighting with another patient, and Scott proceeded to beat the shit out of him for it.” He watched his father to see if that rang a bell.

It did not. “Inmate abuse was not a _rare thing_ in Claremont. You’re going to have to be more specific,” Martin advised placidly. 

Malcolm listed the specifics that Mr. David had told him. “He gave his patient a concussion, his nose never looked the same, and he wore two casts, for a while.” 

A bell was rung. Martin’s features lit up with a morbid excitement. “Ohhhh. _Yes,_ I remember that one,” he grinned. The man glanced down at the photograph again as if recognizing a talented, underrepresented actor from an old movie he’d enjoyed watching.

“And he actually _killed_ another one of his patients,” Malcolm told him.

Dr. Whitly lifted his brows, impressed. _“Did_ he?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm muttered. “A patient named Lionel Brewer.”

“Oh, poor, _poor_ Lionel,” Martin drawled without compassion, a grin still strung across his face.

Poor Lionel was right.

Malcolm stared at his father for a moment, and decided to tell him, “It could have been you.”

Dr. Whitly’s smile paused, and he gave his son a look. A small, confused, curious, and innocent look.

He really had no idea.

Malcolm held his gaze and shared what he’d learned. “The day that Mister Brewer was murdered was the day that Scott was assigned to _you._ Mister David had the day off. But he saw the schedule, had a bad feeling, and came in. He wasn't paid for it, and he stayed the whole shift.”

Dr. Whitly’s eyes darted elsewhere for a moment, then he turned to stare at the playground again, processing that information.

“Scott was reassigned to Lionel that day, instead of you,” Malcolm finished. “Mister David saved you.”

Dr. Whitly did not smile. After a short while, he hummed a thoughtful, “Huh.” Having processed that story, a new grin bloomed on his face. “I knew it.”

Now, Malcolm was the one who gave him a confused look.

“He _does_ care about me,” Dr. Whitly beamed like a triumphant child.

Malcolm refrained from rolling his eyes.

Dr. Whitly looked very pleased with himself, as if he’d finally won a twenty-year-long bet whose odds had been drastically out of his favor. “He never admitted it,” he smirked. “He’s as stubborn as a mule, like you.”

Malcolm glared at him.

Dr. Whitly grinned to himself for a few moments longer, relishing in his victory. But Malcolm saw his gin waver.

The profiler gently watched him and let another period of silence stretch between them.

In the silence, Martin began to _think,_ and perhaps even _feel._ He instinctively grasped for something to say to break the silence, so he didn’t have to think, and feel. The problem was, the only thing he found to grasp was the truth.

“He was always... _good,_ to me.” He uttered the sentence as if it was slightly difficult to say. Perhaps he wasn't accustomed to saying true things. He certainly wasn't accustomed to feeling true things. Looking down at his hands, Martin renewed the strength of his defensive smile and recalled, “He was so worried about me on the night you stabbed me. One of the last things I remember in all that chaos was _him._ Being so worried.”

Dr. Whitly chuckled, “I’d never seen him so unsettled.” He was grinning again, but his expression slowly fell as he realized, “I never got to say goodbye to him."

Malcolm didn’t know what to say. The profiler resorted to using humor, gently quipping, “Should I add him to the list of people you’re not allowed to contact?”

“No, I’m not going to bother him,” Martin chuckled. But his voice was quiet. He smirked and made a joke, speaking as if he’d broken off a relationship with someone very close to him. “He's better off without me.”

Malcolm agreed.

After taking a long sigh, Dr. Whitly mentioned, “That man is… _incorruptible.”_ He growled a little at the end of the sentence, as if he were slightly bitter about it. _That_ was a twenty-year-long bet that he’d repeatedly lost. A game he’d kept playing, but never won. “His moral compass doesn’t just _point_ to the north pole, it _IS_ the north pole,” he professed grumpily, glaring at the playset. “I could never get him to do _anything_ naughty. He _religiously_ followed the rules to a ‘T’ in every waking moment.” No amount of coercion, temptation, threatening, bargaining, manipulating, or even _begging_ ever worked on that guard, and it had been terribly frustrating. The Surgeon had never met anyone who was so steadfast and inseparable from their values.

It was easier to be angry at someone than to miss them. However, there was very little to be angry at Mr. David for. Martin’s glare softened as he admitted, “But he gave me a few more minutes of phone time, on very _rare_ occasions, when I called you. For your fifteenth birthday, and a couple of Christmases. Before your mother blocked the number.” He remembered another few small occasions where Mr. David showed some mercy and relaxed his rule-following regime. “Sometimes he kept the television in the room for a few more minutes, until Ainsley’s news story was finished. So I could hear her say ‘goodbye,’ or ‘have a good night.’ Sometimes, even a ‘see you tomorrow.’” He smiled at the memory of his daughter’s voice. “I know she wasn’t talking to me. But she was talking to her _viewers,_ so, in a way, she _was_ talking to me.”

When Malcolm was gone, training and working for the FBI for all those years, that was all that Dr. Whitly had left of his family. Just Ainsley’s face and voice on the occasional newscast, if the timing was right.

“That was it,” he whispered. “That was all I could ever get him to do. And I didn’t even _ask_ for those things --on those occasions. He just… let me have that little bit of extra time.”

That was the greatest gift anybody could have given him. Time. A little bit of extra time. With his children.

“I was afraid that if I brought any attention to his ‘mistakes’ of kindness, then he’d never make another.” Martin murmured despondently, “I never told him ‘thank you,’” He winced and shrugged. “I mean, I _did,_ but…”

Not an adequate one. Not one that the guard deserved. Not a real, genuine, _‘thank you.’_

Malcolm spoke up. “I’ll tell him for you.”

Dr. Whitly looked over at his son.

The profiler meant it. He’d give Mr. David a real ‘thank you.’

Malcolm felt as if he had never given the security officer an ample show of appreciation either. Unfortunately, it was far too easy to overlook somebody like Mr. David. The ones who were always there, often in the background, working diligently and honestly with no desire to receive any recognition for the acts of service they did, nor a desire to receive anything in return. Angels, hidden in plain sight.

Dr. Whitly avoided giving Malcolm his complete gaze, because there was a gratitude in it that he didn't want to admit or reveal. He only conveyed it, carelessly, with a mutter of, “Good,” and a half-assed nod, both constructed with a false indifference.

But it wasn't enough.

He lightly bounced his knee, ran his tongue along the edge of his bottom lip, and searched the park for an easy way to piece together his thoughts. The Surgeon hesitated to add, “...He has a daughter, who… wants to go to college, and become a master violinist.”

Malcolm listened, in partial disbelief of what he was hearing.

“If you could find a way to… _contribute…_ to that… I think he would be very grateful.”

After a pause of thought, Malcolm promised, “I’ll see to it.” He made the promise with a false indifference, as if his father’s clandestine request was of no significance. The profiler was afraid that if he brought any attention to The Surgeon’s ‘mistake’ of kindness, then he'd never make another.

Dr. Whitly nodded, and he appreciated that his son didn’t make a big deal out of it.

They’d become a bit side-tracked. But they were back to business when Martin looked at the phone in his hands. It cast up an eerie glow from below his beard, its stark luminescence appearing like that of a harsh flashlight. “I assume you’ve already tracked down this… _Scott Talbot_?” Martin asked, hitting the consonants of the new name to nail it into memory.

“I did.”

“And?”

“He’s dead.”

Dr. Whitly squinted at the profiler.

“At least, that’s what the records say,” Malcolm sighed.

Martin’s confusion dispersed, and he smirked. “Well, records aren’t always true.” They were thinking along the same lines.

“Not if someone fabricates them, no.” Malcolm agreed.

“Did someone?” Dr. Whitly prompted.

“I have a strong feeling that someone did. A very specific someone,” the consultant hinted. “Because, interestingly enough... guess who represented Scott in court after he killed Lionel?”

Dr. Whitly nodded. “Sterling.”

“Bingo.”

The Surgeon handed the phone back to his son. “Makes sense, I suppose.”

Malcolm shut the screen off and pocketed it. Doing so welcomed a darkness to shroud them. The night was fast approaching as the sun retreated far behind the planet. “What does?”

Dr. Whitly gave him a look. “What’s the number one reason that people make deals with devils, son?”

Malcolm searched his father’s face, which was becoming more difficult to do as the minutes passed. The shadows were growing as the blue hues of the world succumbed to the dark tones of the night.

“Because they want a new life, of course,” Dr. Whitly explained. “Or, a second chance at one.”

“But why would Scott want a new life?” Malcolm shook his head and guessed, “Because he wanted a clean slate?”

Dr. Whitly suggested the opposite of Malcolm’s guess. “Maybe he just wanted freedom. Not only from prison, but… from everything. Society puts quite a damper on the creative, destructive mind. Maybe he did it to escape from _that._ To renew himself. To be… _reborn,_ like a phoenix,” Martin grinned. Malcolm could see the dull glint of his teeth in the low light.

“I lived two different lives simultaneously,” The Surgeon compared. “It sounds like Scott is living one life after another. He’s probably a full-time hired _goon,_ now. An enforcer, of sorts, which I’m sure he enjoys.”

Malcolm was sure of it, too. “He made a new identity and completely turned to a life of crime,” he murmured. It did make sense.

“A career like that would allow him to be able to make _bank_ under the radar,” Martin mused. He was still smiling, and he colored his tone with a theatrical flair as he drawled, “And it would fulfil his sadistic desire for cultivating _death.”_

Malcolm rolled his eyes, believing his father was being overly dramatic, as usual. “So what do we do now?” he asked dryly, not in the mood for any playful jests.

Dr. Whitly sobered. “If he doesn't _want_ to be found, we’re probably not going to see him again,” he predicted. “At least, not until his next job.”

Scott Talbot’s next job was The Surgeon’s next job. The next time they would see him would be at the meeting, theoretically scheduled a week from now.

“Is that meeting real?” the profiler asked, doubtful of his father’s integrity.

“Yes,” Dr. Whitly answered, his voice a whisper in the dark. “It is.”

Malcolm looked over at him, but it was too dark to see his face anymore. The night was fully upon them, and it had descended fast. The consultant didn't know if he believed his father, but he knew that he shouldn’t. “Can you tell me _where_ it will be? Or what _time?”_ he inquired, desperate for _more._

Had he earned enough trust to be given _more,_ yet?

“It’s... at night,” Martin carefully allowed, giving him nothing.

Malcolm sighed.

Hearing his son’s disappointment, Dr. Whitly glanced over at his silhouette and murmured, “I’m not allowed to bring any friends, son.” 

His words told the profiler that he was not going to give him any more information about that meeting. He simply couldn’t afford to. He knew that his son would take any opportunity to crash it. “But I will tell you _all_ about it, after it’s done,” he vowed, like he was going on a murderers-only business trip, which Malcolm was not invited to attend.

Malcolm didn't argue. He’d fight that battle at another time. “I’m going to do some more research on Sterling. Try to figure out who his target is,” he muttered. “I don't suppose you have any idea who he wants you to kill?”

“None whatsoever.”

Was that the truth? Malcolm didn't know. He just didn’t know.

“Sterling is _very_ good at keeping things _tightly_ under his control,” Dr. Whitly complimented with a bitterness and envy.

“Okay.” Malcolm accepted his excuse and stood up, not planning on pressuring his father for any more. He’d given The Surgeon far too much information about Scott, yet had gained nothing in return. Martin had always been good at taking, and terrible at giving. Malcolm was not going to offer anything else to him until their contributions to this case balanced out. The profiler raised the hood of his coat and began to walk away from the picnic table. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“I won’t be here tomorrow.”

Malcolm turned around. “Why not?”

“I just won’t.” Dr. Whitly shrugged in the darkness.

Malcolm ripped his hood off his head and rolled his eyes. _“Why_ not?” he asked again, stressing the word.

“I’ll be somewhere else tomorrow. New gig, further south. I told you I move around a lot.”

“Alright, we can meet at a later time,” Malcolm compromised. “Seven, or eight.”

Dr. Whitly tipped his head. “I won’t be done until nine or ten.”

“That’s fine. I don't sleep anyway.”

“The busses don’t run that late on Sundays, son.”

“The _busses?”_ Malcolm exhaled an exasperated breath. “You have a _car.”_

Dr. Whitly corrected, “I _had_ a car. And then, I _didn’t.”_

Malcolm blinked at him, stunned. He shifted his stance and scoffed. “Are you telling me that someone--?” He was a little appalled, but a smile tugged at his lips. What an ironic, and _comical_ act of karma. “Did someone... _carjack_ you?”

“It’s not exactly a utopian paradise out here, Malcolm,” his father muttered. He glanced over his shoulder as a distant noise echoed from the streets to the east. “I never thought I’d say this, but sometimes I miss my cell.” He had been spoiled rotten in that cushy cell.

Malcolm began to chuckle. _“The Surgeon_ got _carjacked?”_

The idea was just too hilarious. Poor, poor serial killer.

“It’s _not_ funny,” Martin growled.

“It’s _hilarious!”_ Malcolm laughed, helpless to stop. He brought a fist to his grinning lips and wheezed between bounces of his shoulders.

 _“Stop it,”_ Martin hissed with an acidic glare, his own hands balling tightly in his pockets. _“Stop_ laughing.”

Malcolm did not stop. He couldn’t. He placed one hand on the picnic table to lean on it for support. His knees nearly gave out as he laughed and laughed --much harder than he’d laughed in a very long time.

Dr. Whitly bared his teeth at the consultant, but he managed to tear his gaze away. Brewing in his anger and embarrassment, he concentrated on the damned playset, whose metal structure gleamed in the weak glow of the orange streetlights. But he heard his little boy’s laugh buried beneath that grown man’s. It was a sound he never thought he’d hear again. He was unsure what to feel about hearing it now. After tossing a few brief glares at the cackling profiler, he nipped, “Are you finished?”

Slowly, ever slowly, Malcolm calmed with a few residual huffs of laughter.

“I’m fine, by the way, thanks for asking,” Dr. Whitly added sarcastically.

“Where’d you even _get_ a car?” Malcolm was grinning. The Surgeon could see the dull glint of his son’s teeth in the low light.

“Sterling gave one to me,” he grumbled. _“One,”_ he emphasized. “I’m not getting another.”

Malcolm scoffed. The Devil was one hell of a friend, handing out free vehicles like that. “Did he give you a place to _stay,_ as well?” the profiler smirked. 

Dr. Whitly looked at his leg as he picked some plaster off his jeans, drawling bitterly, “Yyyyep.”

“Where is it?” Malcolm goaded. _The Plaza Hotel, perhaps?_

“I don’t _know_ where it is.” Martin spoke through his teeth. “It was _stolen.”_

It was his _car._

Malcolm laughed again. A single, large huff that was full of both humor and pity. “Man. That really sucks,” he grinned.

“Oh, _go on,_ already!” Dr. Whitly snapped impatiently, waving for Malcolm to leave. “Go back to _Gramercy,_ or wherever the hell _you’re_ living.”

Malcolm’s smile fell. “Was that why you were late yesterday?”

His father didn't answer him.

Contrary to what the profiler thought, this had not been a fun get-away for Martin. This had not been easy. This had been _hard,_ and an utter nightmare. Contrary to what the profiler thought, Martin hadn't been up to macabre mischief behind his son’s back. He’d been _struggling._ The consultant almost felt bad. His dad didn't have a support system, like Malcolm did. His dad didn’t have anybody, _except_ Malcolm. Yet his dad had made it to their meeting yesterday --and even the day before-- despite the obstacles in his way. He’d showed up, against whatever odds, because he wanted to see his son. It was almost touching, but Malcolm firmly ignored his feelings.

“Well. Just. Text me tomorrow,” he awkwardly advised. “I’ll meet you wherever.”

His father still didn’t answer him.

 _“Okay?”_ Malcolm opened his arms, demanding a response.

 _“Okay!”_ Dr. Whitly answered in a petulant tone, refusing to look in his direction. It was clear that the profiler was no longer welcome to stay if he was going to continue to laugh and mock him.

Malcolm wasn't going to continue doing those things. He lifted his hood over his head again and turned to leave, hesitating to murmur a quiet, “Goodnight, dad,” over his shoulder.

Martin shifted his glare sideways to watch the consultant step out into the rain, but he was either too stubborn, peeved, or caught off-guard to say anything back. Malcolm’s thick, heavy raincoat swayed from his tall frame as he walked. As the profiler disappeared into his car and drove off, Dr. Whitly turned his attention to the playset once more.

* * *

Malcolm stared ahead as his windshield wipers passed in front of him, clearing the rain from his vision as he drove on the freeway back to Manhattan. The persistent droplets caused the city lights to blur into wet stars, but sometimes, not even the windshield wipers could erase the distorted effect. He blinked, employing the biological tools of his eyelids to clear his water-logged vision, and gripped the steering wheel tighter.

* * *

His grip failed him, and Malcolm slipped. Maybe it was the sweat from his small hands, or a foolish carelessness that stemmed from his overconfidence. No matter what caused it, it happened all the same. The child fell, head-first, and cried out.

His father lunged, moving more quickly than lightning, to catch him. The world spun as the boy was snatched, whisked away from the ground, and held upright against his dad’s shoulder. _‘Woah, tiger!’_

The child’s fingers curled around the thick fabric of his father’s coat as Malcolm dizzily glanced around to reorient himself, his heart thundering. It didn't take a detective to figure out that he’d come much too close to cracking open his skull.

 _‘You okay?’_ his dad chuckled nervously, holding him securely on his hip and glancing over his face with a quick darting of his eyes. He was well-versed with his son’s features, and knew exactly where to look to determine the answer to that question. He knew the answer before Malcolm did.

 _‘How about we take a break from jumping?’_ the man grinned. His smile was contagious. The child mirrored it and giggled before agreeing with a sheepish, _‘Okay.’_

 _‘Let’s do the monkey bars instead,’_ Martin suggested, glancing around in fear of anyone having seen the near accident. Their neighbors were ruthless gossips, and if word circled back to Jessie, he was done for. Luckily, it appeared that they were alone at that moment. The only two people in the world.

 _‘Think you can beat your record?’_ he challenged, carrying his son over to the bars.

 _‘Yeah!’_ the boy cried excitedly, already leaning away from his father’s shoulder to reach for them.

Martin held him up so he could grab onto the first rung _. ‘Let’s see.’_

* * *

Malcolm tossed his keys on the kitchen counter when he got home. He untied his shoes, hung up his coat, and ran his hands through his hair. Then he grabbed a handful of Twizzlers, emptied his pockets on his bedside table, undressed himself, and collapsed onto his bed to stare at the ceiling while he chewed his dinner.

The rain washed down the large windows of his apartment, smearing the lights that glowed from outside his loft. He watched the melancholy beauty for what felt like an eternity.

It was time to try to go to sleep. He didn’t have high hopes for success, but he brushed his teeth and tossed his clothes in the hamper, and then returned to his bed. Just before Malcolm fastened his last restraint, he was interrupted by a... 

_Buzz._

He grabbed his Nokia and flipped it open.

_‘Goodnight, son.’_


	11. Chapter 11

Lieutenant Arroyo thought it was incredibly ironic --and even more annoying-- that  _ he _ was the one who was now confined to a single room, unable to leave, bedridden, eating nothing but Jell-o, with nothing to do but channel surf, hope for visitors, and accept the occasional phone call. He never thought he’d live to see the day where he had switched places, in a sense, with a certain somebody else. Maybe his only comfort was that The Surgeon was most likely  _ not _ freely strolling about the city, but instead in a ‘better place,’ or so the afterlife was often described.

But Gil didn’t know if The Surgeon  _ was _ in a ‘better place’ or not. He didn’t know which outcome he’d prefer. He tried to remain neutral about the idea --and he succeeded, only because he felt emotionally conflicted no matter which side he leaned towards. He knew Malcolm must have felt the same way, except the internal tug-of-war that the profiler was suffering was undoubtedly much more brutal.

Gil simply tried not to think about the vanished serial killer, and remained patient, knowing that the truth would reveal itself when it was meant to be discovered.

The lieutenant watched the television on the wall, where the broadcast of the six NYPD officers’ funeral aired live. However, it was more of a memorial service than a funeral, due to the lack of caskets. There hadn’t been much of the officers’ bodies left after the explosion, and the pieces of them that had been recovered had been cremated.

American flags lined the somber ceremony, billowing in the gentle wind. Elaborate flower wreaths of the same patriotic colors framed the stage which had been set up in the middle of the baseball field. Through the screen, the Lieutenant saw countless familiar faces in the rows of chairs in front of that stage, and countless more in the stands of the Yankee stadium around it. The ceremony was a heart-wrenching, tear-jerking, and tragic thing to watch. Gil was no stranger to those emotions.

As a visitor entered his hospital room, Gil glanced over, careful not to move his gauzed-up neck too much. The lieutenant’s somber expression lit up as the profiler’s mere presence brought a wave of happiness to him. “Hey, kiddo.”

Malcolm smiled brightly. “Hey, Gil.”

“I thought you’d be there, with Dani and JT.” Gil’s brow furrowed as he gestured at the television.

The consultant pulled over a chair and sat close beside his bed. “I’d rather be here with you, instead.” His voice was warm, but he also spoke like it was no big deal. Gil smiled and moved his hand to pat and squeeze the boy’s shoulder affectionately.

What the profiler had said was true, but that wasn't the only reason he was here instead of at that baseball stadium. There, Malcolm would have been shackled with guilt the entire time, seeing family members weep as they laid flowers and flags over the six fallen officers’ framed portraits. There, he would have spent the entire ceremony thinking; if only he had gone with his team to the junkyard that day, then perhaps those men might have lived.

But  _ here, _ he could pay his respects to the officers with the barrier of a television between him and the unfortunate scene that he’d caused. Here, he would not be the target of any judgmental looks. And here, he had Gil. Gil always made him feel better, just by being near him.

They sat close beside each other and focused on the broadcast as an NYPD officer stepped up to the podium on the stage, holding a sheet of paper in one hand.

It was Lieutenant McLeod.

The man cleared his throat. “I have a statement in my hands from Lieutenant Gil Arroyo, who could not be here with us today. The incident that took these men from us nearly took him from us as well. He wrote this for the memorial, and asked that I read it in his place. I hope I do it justice.”

Malcolm glanced over at Gil, then back at the TV.

Lieutenant McLeod had some difficulty starting the speech. But he muscled through his emotions and delivered it admirably. “We gather here today to honor six men who were heroes. Bold, and valiant heroes.” The man swallowed and glanced up from his paper between each slow, deliberate sentence. “They sacrificed their lives trying to save another’s. That is what heroes do. And though it is no secret that some believe the life they were trying to save was not worth saving, well... they tried to save it anyway. Because that’s another vital quality of a hero. Unbiased compassion.”

“Their duties were to protect and to serve, and there was not a day that went by where they failed to fulfill either of those duties.” Lieutenant McLeod’s voice changed, nearly cracking. “I would testify that they were good cops, but that would be untrue. They were  _ more _ than good cops. They were the kind of cop that good cops look up to and aspire to emulate.”

Lieutenant McLeod was actually tearing up, though he was trying his best not to. It was heartbreaking to watch. “In this line of work, we all wake up, kiss our families goodbye, and put on the badge knowing that one day we might not return home. But that is the choice we make, and we make it willingly.”

“I have confidence that I speak for everyone in our department when I say this; We love our job. Even when it is difficult. Even when it is heartbreaking. Even when it is scary. We love our community. We love doing the right thing, and we love being the people whom others can count on and rely on for help.” McLeod glanced up from his paper again, face reddened and tears welling in his stone-chiseled eyes. “Because we’re cops. That's what we do. That's what we’re  _ supposed _ to do. And that’s what these six brave men did. The right thing.”

As he came to the bottom of the speech, he harnessed the last of his composure and finished strong. “Let us honor their memory by finding a way to also do the right thing, every day, even if only in small ways. Let us have the courage to show compassion to all those around us, even when it is difficult. Let us serve those less fortunate than ourselves, even when we have little to give. Let us make these heroes proud.”

The paper shook as he set it down on the podium. Finished, he choked, “I couldn't agree more with Lieutenant Arroyo.” He swallowed again and gave a small, militant call to action. “Ladies and gentlemen. Let’s make ‘em proud.” That was all he could bring himself to say. If he said anymore, he would burst. After he left the podium, the ceremony continued with a few more speeches and eulogies.

Malcolm swallowed his own emotion, and smiled over at the man in the hospital bed beside him. “That was a great speech, Gil.”

“Oh I don't know,” Gil muttered humbly, waving a hand. “I was doped up on morphine when I wrote it.”

They chuckled. Malcolm gestured at the television. “Well, it made  _ McLeod  _ cry, so…”

Gil smiled. “Thanks, kid.” He gazed at the television, and his smile saddened. They spent a few additional moments listening to the broadcast and sharing in the reverent silences. But soon, Gil asked, “So, what’s new with you?”

Malcolm took a deep breath. “Well, I… think I’m getting a bit closer to a potential suspect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Malcolm told him about his discussion with Corey Wheaton, and told him what Mr. David had revealed about Scott Talbot. He also told the Lieutenant his suspicions that Scott was still alive, and was living a life of crime under a different name. Finally, the profiler told him, “And JT appreciated the overtime you gave him for babysitting me.”

They smirked at each other. “Well,  _ someone’s _ gotta keep an eye on you, now that I can’t,” Gil professed, justifying his decision. “Next time I’ll send Dani.”

Malcolm’s smile wavered. He was still embarrassed about the last conversation he had with her. 

“You’re making good progress, kid,” Gil fondly told him. All jokes about his habitual recklessness aside, it was all thanks to the consultant that the case wasn’t at a complete dead end anymore.

“Thanks,” Malcolm hummed, deep in thought about how to fix the awkwardness between him and Detective Powell.

“You look good today,” Gil noticed.

Malcolm gave the man his full attention.

“Healthy, for once,” the lieutenant commented. It was so unusual, it was almost a cause of suspicion.

“Maybe it’s because I actually got some  _ sleep  _ last night,” Malcolm chuckled.

“Oh yeah?” Gil inquired excitedly.

“Yeah. I got a full seven hours,” Malcolm grinned triumphantly.

Gil was impressed.  _ “Wow. _ That’s much more than your usual two. Did you change up your meds or somethin’?”

Malcolm shrugged, “No,” and pointed at his healing cheek. “Unless the antibiotics I’m taking for this counts.” They laughed briefly, and then Malcolm shrugged again. “Just… spending more time outside… at parks... I guess?”

Gil made a face. “With the kind of weather we’ve been having?”

“Maybe the barometric pressure calms me,” Malcolm theorized jokingly.

Gil could tell that the young man was just making up an excuse. He gave him a playfully scrutinous look, but left it alone. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

Malcolm smiled and nodded, but as he glanced to his hands he hid a guilty face. The lieutenant wouldn’t be saying that if he knew what the profiler was actually doing differently lately.

For a moment, Malcolm desired to tell the man that he was in contact with his father. He didn’t know what made that desire flare up. Maybe he wanted the lieutenant’s advice. Maybe he didn’t want to feel so alone keeping this deep, dark secret anymore. Maybe he wanted to ease his load of responsibility by recruiting somebody else to share the weight of it. Or maybe Malcolm just wanted someone to tell him that they were proud of him for doing something so difficult --indeed the most difficult thing that Malcolm had ever done-- and encourage him to keep at it.

Or, alternatively, maybe Malcolm subconsciously wanted Gil to shut it down for him, and liberate him from the spider web he’d tangled himself up into. Maybe he knew that he would only become more and more tangled with time, and eventually, it would be too late to come clean.

Malcolm pondered only telling Gil about the Nokia, not the fact that he’d been seeing his father in person. But no matter how he would craft it, he would be constructing a lie. Malcolm did not want to lie to Gil. Lying to someone was different than simply keeping the truth to oneself. He either had to tell him everything, or nothing at all.

So he told him nothing at all, and kept the truth to himself. For now.

“How are your nightmares?”

Disturbed from his disturbing thoughts, Malcolm glanced back at Gil and answered, “No nightmares, recently. It's a miracle,” he laughed. “And no hallucinations, either.” Which he found incredibly ironic. Perhaps his mind had no need to make up terrible, triggering images when reality sufficed.

Gil forced a smile on his face. “Good, kiddo. I'm glad.” He meant what he said, but his gaze lowered, as if it were heavy.

Malcolm furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Gil lied, trying to amend his smile into one that was more convincing. He was not gifted at lying.

Malcolm gave him a look.

Gil dropped his lousy act, sighing, “Just been having a few nightmares of my own.”

That intrigued Malcolm, but not in a good way. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Gil mumbled, looking back at the TV with a careful turn of his neck.

“Do you wanna talk about them?” Malcolm offered kindly. “I consider myself an  _ expert  _ on nightmares.”

Gil smirked, but didn't talk. Not for a while. When he did, he whispered, “They’re about your dad.”

Malcolm’s smile faded.

Gil kept his attention forward, on the television, but he wasn't watching it. “I keep dreaming, um… that he’s… operating. On me.” He shrugged as if it were a stupid thing to say.

There was no trace of a smile left on Malcolm’s face.

“But the thing is, they’re like…  _ strong _ nightmares,” Gil explained. “Vivid. Um. Like memories, almost. Playing on repeat. Every time I close my eyes.”

Malcolm carefully prompted,  _ “How _ vivid?”

_ “Really _ vivid,” Gil huffed weakly. The attempt at achieving some humor failed. His tired smirk instantly fizzled out. The man scratched his head before gesturing with his hand to elaborate, “Uh, in these... nightmares _ , _ I have this tight,  _ choking  _ feeling... in my throat. Like I can’t breathe.”

Malcolm breathlessly listened to him, his eyes wide.

“I feel needles... sliding under my skin. And, uh... this.” The lieutenant gestured carelessly to his bandaged neck. “I feel all kinds of stuff… there.”

The profiler tried not to stare at the gauze.

“And in proper nightmare fashion, I can’t move a muscle,” Gil grumbled through a sigh, doing his best to act like such nightmares didn’t bother him. But Malcolm saw straight through his tough guy act.

“And I hear his voice,” Gil mumbled, absent-mindedly twisting the gold wedding band around his left ring finger and continuing not to make eye contact.

“What does he say?” Malcolm asked.

“I don’t know,” Gil shrugged again. “I can never make out the words. I think he’s... talking to someone, but it’s not me.”

That was pretty damned vivid. Almost too vivid.

Malcolm took a steady breath, concealing his panic and dread. He blinked and shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Gil.” There was no possible way he could make the lieutenant understand just how sorry he was. He never wished for Gil to suffer lingering trauma from what had happened to him that day.

Gil shook his head. “It’s not your fault, kid.”

But it was. Malcolm tried not to let his emotions show while he attempted to piece together some words that would actually help his dear friend cope with what he was experiencing. “You know… um,” he opened his hands and explained, “Sometimes when patients are under a lot of stress, intubated, hypoxemic, and on put strong sedatives, like anesthesia, uh, it can mess with the neural pathways in the brain, and make their mind play tricks on them.”

Gil glanced over to listen to him.

“They call it delirium,” Malcolm explained, “Sometimes patients have hallucinations that the MRI machine is an oven, or something, and they freak out. That kind of stuff,” he shrugged. Unfortunately, it sounded silly when he described it, but it was surely  _ not _ silly to the person experiencing those hallucinations. He, of all people, knew.

Malcolm quickly clarified, “I’m not saying that’s what you have, but…” He struggled. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you're not the only person who's had terrible...  _ visions, _ like that. I mean,  _ obviously, _ but--”

Goddamn, he was  _ awful _ at this ‘comforting’ thing. 

Gil smiled as he watched the young man stumble over his words.

After taking a breath to reset his clumsy babbling, the profiler finished with an embarrassed grin, “What I am doing a  _ terrible  _ job of expressing is…” He deeply nodded and gave the lieutenant an earnest, calm smile as he said, “You’re safe.”

And therefore implied, _ ‘the nightmares aren’t real.’ _

But he left that part unspoken, because if he had spoken it, he would have been lying to the lieutenant.

“Thanks, kid,” Gil patted the young man’s shoulder again, appreciating his endeavors of emotional support. They sat together in silence for a short while, simply being in the moment and subtly reading each other with small looks and faint smiles.

With a gentle gaze, Malcolm identified and asked, “Are you worried about your surgery today?”

Gil glanced at the clock on the wall, which was counting down to what he felt was an hour of doom. “I wouldn’t be if I didn’t have those nightmares,” he admitted. “I think going back into an OR is just gonna make ‘em worse.”

Malcolm’s gaze turned pained. Gil was always so fearless and confident. It was difficult seeing him scared, for once. “Do you want me to be in there with you?” the profiler offered, intending to make the lieutenant feel better just by being near him, like how Gil had always helped him.

Gil rolled his head back and forth across his pillow as best he could, declining the offer by providing the boy with an excuse. “You’ve got work to do, kid. You don’t have to hang around here all day.”

“Work can wait.” Malcolm informed him. “You’re more important.”

Gil raised his eyebrows and gave him a look of disbelief. He never thought he’d live to see the day where working a case wasn't Malcolm’s number one priority --and obsession.

Malcolm smiled, and promised, “I'm going to be in there with you.” 

* * *

In the hallway of the hospital, Malcolm sent a text.

‘I won’t be able to meet you tonight.’

It didn’t take long for his Nokia to buzz in response.

(Emoji of a sad face.)

‘Why not?’

The profiler answered, ‘Something came up.’

The cell phone buzzed again, ‘What came up?’

‘Nothing for you to worry about.’ Malcolm was eager to end the conversation and put the phone away, knowing his mother was going to round the corner any second.

‘I’m worrying about it,’ The Surgeon texted. ‘Are you okay?’

Malcolm answered a curt, ‘Yes.’

‘Are you mad at me again?’

The profiler paused and internally acknowledged that he was quite upset with his father at the moment, but that wasn’t the reason that he wasn't able to see him tonight. ‘Family emergency,’ Malcolm vaguely explained, then sent, ‘I’ll text you later,’ to get him to shut up.

The clip-clopping of expensive heels echoed through the halls. Malcolm hurried to silence the Nokia. Still, a text came.

‘Are the girls alright?’

The profiler quickly repeated, ‘Text you later,’ to end the conversation. But just before he closed his phone, another text popped up.

‘Malcolm, I need answers!’

Malcolm felt no remorse as he shoved the device deep into his pocket. His father wasn't getting any answers. The consultant had no problem with keeping The Surgeon in the dark and out of the loop. It was only fair. An act of karma. 

Jessica rounded the corner, wearing a brand of designer clothes and a strong scent of sugary perfume that were each nearly impossible to pronounce unless one was fluent in French. The woman was also carrying a large vase filled with a lavish floral arrangement. She clip-clopped down the hall with the ridiculously large gift cradled in one arm, somehow managing to not only appear graceful while doing such a thing, but also powerful. Jessica greeted her son with a nickname of ‘darling’ and a short babble of frivolous complaints about how difficult everyday life was without her house staff. Malcolm rose from his chair to greet his mother with a large smile, accepting her motherly embrace with a loving one of his own.

They went in to visit Gil before he was wheeled off to the OR. “Christ, Jess, you’re bringing the whole flower shop in here,” he exclaimed, laughing with delight as she showed off the giant vase. “Where are we gonna put it?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll have them bring in another table,” she assured, joking, “Or two, or three.” It seemed that she was intent on transforming his hospital room into a greenhouse by the time he was finally cleared to leave.

The moments before Gil’s surgery were filled with laughter and jokes and smiles from all three of them.

And especially, love.

The Nokia remained silenced and shunned in Malcolm’s pocket. He didn’t look at either of his phones at all for the next few hours. He completely invested his attention in the present, with his mother, and with Gil.

With his family.

* * *

In the OR, Malcolm stood by the operating table --gowned and masked in baby blue colors. This time, he’d had the time to scrub up properly, as opposed to the last. He would stay in that room for as long as it took for the surgery to be completed, and he would watch the numbers on the machines once again, even though it was not his job to do so, this time.

The profiler held Gil’s hand as the surgical team buzzed around them. While the nurse inserted intravenous lines, the tech placed the last of the instruments on the wheeled carts, and the assistant finished tugging a pair of gloves over the lead surgeon’s hands for him, Malcolm maintained contact with the lieutenant. The two of them exchanged small squeezes of their hands and rubs of their thumbs. The surgical team all spoke casually and calmly as they conducted the timeout procedure, which Gil and Malcolm verified.

Then, they began.

The anesthesiologist spoke some last few instructions and reassurances to the lieutenant, then gently placed a plastic mask over his goatee. Malcolm watched Gil with an observant, endearing gaze, continuing to rub his thumb over the man’s knuckles as the lieutenant breathed in the general anesthesia. Gil began to blink as he stared up at Malcolm’s orbs. Their eyes were their only tools to convey their thoughts and emotions when the rest of their faces were covered by their differing masks.

Gil told him that he was scared.

Malcolm told him that he was safe.

Before long, Gil’s blinks ceased, and he quickly succumbed to the influence of the sedative gas. The surgical team commenced the operation, removing the mask to insert a laryngoscope and tracheal tube before unwrapping the gauze around his neck and carefully reopening his half-healed wound with a sterile scalpel.

Malcolm stepped out of their way, his heart racing as he watched. Memories blended with the scene before him. Sometimes he saw his father’s eyes in place of the surgeon’s. Sometimes he saw himself as the surgical tech when the young man handed The Surgeon the necessary tools to perform the operation. Sometimes their gentle murmurs of “Suction,” and “Hand me that, thank you,” reminded him of his father’s low, concentrating tone. After a while, Malcolm began to sweat, and his hands trembled. He remained in the room, watching them --watching the memories of himself and his father-- for twenty minutes before he excused himself.

The profiler hurried back to the washroom to rip the mask off his face. He gulped in a few deep breaths, holding onto a large industrial sink for support as he felt a wave of nausea pass through his gut and a tingling chill run down his back. He ran his hands through his hair and then peeled off the rubber gloves that hugged them, feeling much too hot to wear them.

He couldn’t fathom what it must have been like for poor Gil to be suffer through his first operation, when his father had been the one holding the scalpel. He never expected that Gil would have been  _ awake _ during that experience, and relive it every day in his nightmares. Malcolm felt a deep, sinful responsibility for such a thing. An agonizing pain pinched his heart, and an anger burned within it. Had his father not given Gil the correct drugs in the IV? Had he  _ only _ given him a paralytic, and not a sedative, or not enough of a sedative? Had he given him  _ anything _ at all for pain? Had his ‘mistakes’ been  _ intentional? _

Of course they’d been intentional. Malcolm remembered how prepared that veterinary clinic had been when he’d arrived with their patient. There was no way that his father had been lacking the right drugs, or had accidentally miscalculated the dosages.

Malcolm wanted to scream and weep all at once. But it was a good thing he didn’t, for he did not remain alone in the washroom.

“Hey. You alright?”

Malcolm glanced behind himself as the anesthesiologist stepped into the washroom. The profiler quickly passed his fingertips over his eyes to ensure nothing had leaked from them and took a deep breath, recomposing himself. “Yeah. You go ahead and keep--” he gestured to the door to the OR.

“My assistant’s got it,” the anesthesiologist assured him. He grabbed a Styrofoam cup and went to the sink. “Here, drink some water.”

Malcolm appreciated his concern, but honestly just wanted to be left alone. Even still, he accepted the cup that the man handed to him and nodded in gratitude as he drank from it. It did help him cool off, and it chased his nausea away.

“Sometimes I can’t handle the sight of gore either,” the anesthesiologist shrugged and laughed weakly.

His faded blonde hair was receding at the edges of his forehead, but he smiled from behind his glasses and medical mask. Overall he appeared to be a nervous, awkward, and quiet man, who could have easily been an IT technician if he’d taken a different path through college. But Malcolm saw a hollowness in the man’s hazel eyes. A deeply concealed or habitually ignored depression and fatigue.

“It’s not that,” Malcolm shook his head. He wasn't planning on explaining what was bothering him, but the anesthesiologist seemed to be waiting for an explanation, so Malcolm hesitantly attempted to finish, “Um… I was there for his  _ first _ surgery, and I just… can’t stop thinking about that day.”

“Oh,” the man hummed. His empathy was tainted by a dash of innocent confusion. “I don’t... remember seeing you in here for his first surgery...”

Malcolm fingered the texture of the Styrofoam cup in his hands and carefully explained, “He had a bit of work done, um, before he got here. In the ambulance.” He felt as if he was digging himself a grave of lies.

“Oh,” the anesthesiologist hummed again, still confused. “By who?”

“Uh, one of the paramedics,” Malcolm rasped, shrugging. “Just some... internal sutures, I think?” He took a large sip from his cup again.

“Huh. Yeah, Charles was sayin’, uh… they were impressive,” the man recalled. “He said that half of our job had already been done for us, when Mister Arroyo came in last week...” he trailed off, lost in the perplexing memory.

There was no more water in the cup for Malcolm to busy himself drinking. “Guess it was a good paramedic,” he smiled falsely, stepping away and turning his back to find a garbage bin.

“Guess so,” the anesthesiologist watched him, his brow slightly furrowed. “What was your name again?” he asked politely.

“Uh, Malcolm. Malcolm Bright.”

“Andrew,” the anesthesiologist introduced himself. “I’d shake your hand, but, sterility, and all.” he held up his gloved hands.

Malcolm waved away the apology. “I get it. Nice to meet you, Andrew.”

“You feeling better?” Andrew asked kindly.

The profiler nodded and smiled, lying.

“Glad to hear it.” Andrew gestured to the door behind him. “You gonna come back in, or...?”

“Yeah, in a little bit.”

“Okay. Um. Make sure you wash your hands again, and get a new mask,” the anesthesiologist instructed, clearly an avid rule-follower, or a little OCD, or both. Those were not bad things to be, especially when one was in the medical field --and when one was a crucial part of a surgical team.

“I know. I’ll do that, thanks.” Malcolm assured, eagerly waiting for the man to leave him alone again.

When he  _ was _ alone again, The profiler exhaled a sigh. He hoped he hadn’t made the anesthesiologist feel too much suspicion. He knew it spread like a disease. If it spread to the rest of the hospital staff, or to Gil when he woke up, or another police officer --if people started to question  _ how exactly _ Malcolm got the lieutenant to the hospital, and started comparing conflicting stories-- he would have some explaining to do.

There was no ambulance. There was just his Sedan. There were no paramedics that tended to Gil before the hospital staff. There was just him, and his father, and White Pine veterinary clinic on Baxter Road.

Malcolm did go back in the OR again. He watched Gil’s procedure diligently, and continued to hold onto his lifeless hand when he could. But he noticed that Andrew the anesthesiologist kept glancing over at him between doing his job of monitoring Gil’s unconsciousness. The man stared at the consultant when he thought Malcolm wasn't aware of it. It made the profiler uneasy, but he tried not to let it bother him.

His secrets were safe, for now.

* * *

Malcolm was still holding Gil’s hand when the lieutenant woke up. He came out of his sedation the same way he fell into it, blinking and drowsy. He was wearing another nasal cannula, and a fresh roll of thick gauze around his neck.

“Hey, Gil,” the profiler whispered with a smile.

“Hey, kid,” the lieutenant rasped with a raw, hoarse voice.

“Everything went really well,” Malcolm explained slowly. “The doctors are going to come talk to you in a minute.”

Gil stared at him tiredly, processing what he said.

“Mom’s in the restroom, fixing her hair so she’s presentable when you see her again,” Malcolm smirked. She had no need to fuss over her appearance so much, especially for Gil’s sake. The cop saw her as nothing short of beautiful, in any physical state.

Gil did not smile at the consultant's gentle joke.

Malcolm’s smile sobered. “Any more nightmares?” he asked.

After a few moments, Gil rasped, “It was  _ you.” _ His voice was barely a whisper, and it appeared as if water was welling in his eyes. “He was talking to  _ you.” _

Malcolm felt the color leave his face as Gil blinked through a couple of tears. They were tears of horror, and pain. The kind of pain that morphine couldn't cure.

“You were working with your dad.”

Malcolm’s heart shattered into pieces.

Before they could talk about the new development of Gil’s nightmares, Jessica returned from the restroom, bringing her fussing nature with her. Malcolm moved back and let his mother coddle the lieutenant, who remained dazed and mumbling things to reassure her that he was fine. The profiler watched them, feeling a wound opening in his heart, gaping and endless. He worked very hard to prevent water from welling in his own eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

Malcolm had pages worth of missed calls from his father, but there were only three texts waiting for him to read when all was said and done. Remarkably, The Surgeon had obeyed his son’s three texts rule. Perhaps that was the only reason why Malcolm agreed to meet him that night, at whatever place of his choosing, like the profiler had offered the day before.

The place of his father’s choosing was quote, _‘Jamestown. Under the overpass on Pendleton Street, between Oakridge Drive and Stewart Avenue.’_

Malcolm looked it up and headed straight there from the hospital. That late into the night, there were scarcely any other vehicles on the streets. The profiler was able to navigate to his designated location without having to dodge through traffic, and he was grateful for that. After Malcolm exited the freeway, he passed a vacant train yard where multiple rusty tracks stretched. A factory smoked in the near distance, its towers crowned with beady little red lights to ward off any approaching planes from the airport. He entered a semi-residential zone that was dotted with shabby single floor houses -- each home to either broken or boarded-up windows. Graffiti adorned the once-white bricks of the neighborhood’s sole church.

Couldn't his father work in a part of town that _wasn't_ at the rock bottom of the poverty level?

He guided his vehicle to a gentle roll as he followed Oakridge Drive alongside a raised freeway. Cement slabs served as walls bordering the sides of the interstate, framed and overgrown with vegetation that infested the strips of dirt between the freeway and the lower roads it cradled. Chain link fences were strung between the cement walls displaying old, worn ‘No Trespassing’ signs --all of which had been ignored and spray-painted over with some gang symbol or another. Broken streetlights towered overhead --too neglected to effectively give the surrounding areas much light at all, and the ones that managed to illuminate the sidewalks flickered and sputtered as if they were dying.

The profiler turned down Pendleton Street, which ran underneath the freeway, and parked his car in the shadows of the overpass above him. There were actually three overpasses above him, not just one, giving the location a nice wide umbrella of cover. The consultant was entirely bathed in darkness, sheltered from both any rain and any light, yet he felt as if he were completely exposed. He stuck out like a sore thumb, clothed in his semi-formal designer garments and leaning against his sleek black luxury sedan.

Malcolm thought this was a _great_ meeting place.

To get _mugged._

It was a place where someone who had failed to pay up for drugs would be brought, shot, and deposited in the dead patch of grass that served as the armpit between the freeway ramps. It was a place that reeked of bad luck and danger more than it reeked of filth and soiled newspapers. Trash plastered the crook of the curb and grime resided in every crevice in the concrete landscape around him. Not even crickets called this place home.

Malcolm waited with his hands in his pockets, his nerves tingling as he glanced around at every unfamiliar sound in the night. Fortunately, _this_ time, he didn’t have to wait long at all. The profiler performed a double-take as he spotted a hooded figure round the corner and trudge under the overpass, though on the opposite side of the street. Malcolm remained where he was, watching the figure warily. The figure glanced behind himself before crossing the empty road to the consultant, his hands stuffed deeply in the pockets of his flimsy jacket.

“Harold, right?” Malcolm called. He was partially joking, and partially making sure.

The figure quietly snapped, “Oh, _shut up_.”

Yep, that was definitely ‘Harold.’

The profiler couldn’t see much of him in the darkness, but as his eyes adjusted, he made out some details about his disheveled father. There were a couple of small holes in the seams of his dark windbreaker due to the cheap material suffering everyday wear and tear. Dirt caked his jeans, and he smelled as if the only shower he’d had in three days was that which the clouds had given him. The fact that Malcolm could smell him from ten feet away was a real concern.

Dr. Whitly glanced around them again before lowering his hood. His hair was more wild than usual. Any comb that dared to try to pass through its tangled mats would surely snap in two, and Malcolm wouldn’t be surprised if a small critter had built a nest in the man’s beard.

The Surgeon didn't look well. He looked nervous. Uncomfortable. On full alert, yet exhausted. He clearly hadn’t been sleeping enough, if at all. Malcolm wasn't surprised, after what he’d seen of this place. His father was obviously out of his element. Turned feral, almost. Like a dog who had suddenly found himself dumped in the gutter after having lived the majority of his life as a pampered house pet.

Martin gave him an exaggerated shrug, keeping his hands in his pockets. _“So?”_ he urged impatiently, “Is everyone alright?”

“Yes,” Malcolm answered firmly. “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t ‘ _nothing,’_ son, don’t _lie_ to me,” Dr. Whitly growled.

Malcolm again stressed that “Everyone’s _fine,”_ and willed for him to drop it.

The Surgeon wasn’t going to drop it. “For _God’s sake,_ Malcolm! Just tell me what happened,” he snapped again, his anger sparking like flint striking steel.

Martin was upset. He was fired up, and his fire hadn’t quelled during the hours he’d waited for news. The wait had only fueled it. His anxiety had spread, consuming him like a wildfire that had failed to be properly put out the moment it had been started.

Malcolm regretted his decision to ignore his father’s earlier questions. “Look, I’m sorry I made you worry,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t have used the word ‘emergency.”

“But you _did,”_ Dr. Whitly pointed at him. _“Why?”_

Malcolm’s usually quick-thinking mind was stuck.

Martin knew that something had caused his son to use that word, in the moment, even if the incident hadn’t turned out to be as much of an emergency as he initially thought. “Did it involve a _hospital?”_ Dr. Whitly inquired, making an educated guess.

Malcolm’s expression conveyed a culpable, ‘Yes.’

“Spit it out, son,” Dr. Whitly encouraged darkly.

Malcolm equipped a metaphorical mirror for a shield, deflecting the interrogation. “You know, I’ve asked _you_ to spit out a lot of things too, and you--”

“This is _different!_ ” Dr. Whitly hissed. “This isn’t _business,_ Malcolm, this is _family!”_ He took a breath, but it failed to calm him as much as he intended for it to. He spat, “If _I_ knew that one of the girls was in trouble, do you _honestly_ think I would _keep that_ from you!?”

Malcolm felt trapped by that question. Regardless of what he thought the answer was --regardless of what the _truthful_ answer was, he corrected, “It wasn't the girls.”

Dr. Whitly paused for a second, squinting as he discerned that Malcolm was telling the truth. “It _wasn’t_ the _girls?”_ he repeated. “Then who _was_ it?”

Who _else_ did his son consider part of their family?

Malcolm waited for the dreaded realization to hit his father, but Dr. Whitly still didn’t put the pieces together. The profiler reluctantly accepted that this was going to be the conversation they were about to have, and told him, “It was Gil.” 

Martin had not expected to hear _that._ He grimaced in both revulsion and surprise. _“Gil?”_

“He had another surgery,” Malcolm explained defeatedly. “They found a tumor near his spine, and… removed it.”

Dr. Whitly appeared to be waiting for the punchline of a joke.

It never came.

“ _Gil_ was the _‘family’_ emergency?” he snarled, emphasizing each word as his disbelief battled with his loathing.

Malcolm nodded.

At a loss for what else to do, The Surgeon smiled. It was a short-lived, _livid_ smile. Dr. Whitly tipped his head and asked, “Just how close, _exactly,_ _are you_ to Gil?” He had his suspicions, of course --his _fears--_ but he wanted to know the truth, even if he didn't like it. 

Malcolm hesitated, but then courageously answered, “Close.” 

The profiler had been in fits when he’d begged for Martin to save the lieutenant’s life, but now it was clear to The Surgeon that Malcolm’s relationship with the NYPD officer was something _more_ than that of simply friends, or even _good_ friends. The truth was that Malcolm perceived the lieutenant as some sort of _father figure._

Malcolm confirmed Dr. Whitly’s fears and explained with a small, controlled measure of resentment, “He was there for me for all of those years that _you_ weren’t.”

Those were dangerous words --words that made The Surgeon _dangerously upset--_ but the man grinned with a low, simmering rage brewing behind his weak laugh. _“Ohhoho,”_ Martin exhaled, smiling cruelly. _“Was he,_ now?”

Malcolm’s steady, stalwart gaze said ‘yes.’

The two of them stared at each other, but they were not stares of equal strength. Malcolm burned beneath his father’s eyes, which saw things that the profiler could not hide. He endured his father’s feverish eyes, and he held his head high, unashamed of what they saw. They saw, in Malcolm’s very core, the evidence of Gil’s influence and ever-prevalent presence. 

Dr. Whitly saw Malcolm progressing through every stage of his life --with someone _else’s_ hand on his shoulder, guiding him through it. Martin saw Malcolm’s _love_ for the man who had _been there_ for him for all of the years that _he hadn’t._ He saw the graduations, the birthdays, the firsts, and all of the other milestones and opportunities that Gil had taken to teach, and protect, and help, and talk to, and hug, and _laugh_ with the boy. _His_ boy. It was like looking through the barrier of an unbreakable window to see a deeply-desired yet unobtainable prize. A prize that was _meant_ to be his, _born_ to be his, but that someone _else_ had won.

The Surgeon glanced the profiler up and down as his expression morphed into a snarl. His teeth touched as he grimaced. For the first time, perhaps he didn’t see Malcolm as his son, but instead as somebody _else’s._ Martin quickly banished that image from his mind, stuffing it away deep within him, where he would prefer to lock it up and never see it again.

A pleasant smile slowly returned to his cheeks, his tangled beard framing the grin warmly. The twinkle in his eyes glinted like knives. “Well. That explains it.” His smile tightened as it struggled to contain his anger. It soon failed, and a cuss broke from his lips. “That son of a _bitch.”_ Dr. Whitly looked straight at the profiler as he seethed his next words. “I should have killed him on that gurney when I had the chance.”

Malcolm’s pride left, giving way to fear. This was not a bear to poke. This was not a fire whose flames needed any more fanning, and he realized that he had been foolish to flaunt his untouched, green pastures. “You wouldn’t be where you are now, if you had,” he reminded cautiously.

That set Martin off. “Oh, do you think I _want_ to be where I am now?” Dr. Whitly asked with another terrible grin. He continued on a tirade, his gestures growing in tandem with the volume of his temper, “Do you think I _like_ being here, at the _bottom_ of the food chain, with _nothing_ to call my own --not even a _roof_ over my head, or a _bed_ to lay in? Do you think I‘m having a _jolly good time,_ living like this!?”

The profiler kept his mouth shut and tried not to flinch as the man yelled at him, his infuriated voice echoing throughout the concrete cavern they inhabited.

 **_“Look at me,_ ** Malcolm! Look at _where we are!_ I’d rather be _stuck_ in my _cell!_ I’d rather be _DEAD than where I am now!!”_ Martin cried in hysterics.

“You don’t mean that,” Malcolm whispered. He prayed that his father did not mean that.

Martin tilted his head as another cruel smile tore across his face, wordlessly conveying an _‘Oh, don’t I?’_ He abandoned the smile, breathing through his teeth as he removed his penetrating eyes from the boy to glance around them again, realizing how loud he’d been shouting. This was not a good place to attract attention.

There was so much hatred searing in his eyes, it seemed to burn himself. Dr. Whitly cursed a harsh, _“God,”_ and lifted his palms to press their heels into his eye sockets, wandering in careless circles as he tried to extinguish his fiery orbs. Malcolm warily watched him, recognizing the familiar idiosyncrasy. The profiler did the same thing when he reached his peak of stress.

The Surgeon continued to pace this way and that for a few steps at a time as he rubbed his head and gripped his hair. He couldn’t get that image out of his head. The image of Malcolm as someone else’s son and not his own. He wanted to blind himself with his own fingers so he’d never see that nightmarish image again.

Martin swung an arm back to point at the consultant, but did not face him. _“Gil,”_ he growled, trying to keep himself under control, “Is _not_ part of our family, Malcolm.” It seemed that Dr. Whitly thought he could fix this --thought that he could correct his son’s brainwashed thinking-- by simply forbidding and denouncing the profiler’s relationship with the lieutenant. But that wasn't possible.

The profiler hesitated, but gently argued, “He is part of _my_ \--”

 ** _“No!”_** Martin cut him off with a violent swipe of his hand, slicing it through the air as if the edge of his fingers were a blade. He stormed toward the profiler and continued to point vehemently at him. “No, **_I_** built this family. This is **_my_** family, he does **_not_** get to _steal it from me!”_

Malcolm stood his ground and simply gave his father a look that could only be described as a look of pity.

The Surgeon took a breath or two, slowly calming under the heavy weight of defeat. His stubborn denial crumbled as he quietly realized, “He already has, hasn’t he?” It was too late to change it. Too late to stop it, to prevent it, to fix it. _All_ of this was too late. “He took my family,” Dr. Whitly whispered, staring at Malcolm with loss in his eyes. They no longer had the energy to burn with the same heat as they did before.

“The thing I care about _most--_ the **_only_** thing I care about.” Martin’s gaze dropped, and he stepped back, almost as if he were stumbling from a ghostly shove. He gazed listlessly at the road, then scoffed with misplaced humor, “That is a _bold_ move.” A weary anger colored his words again.

Malcolm was captivated by his father’s raw, bleeding psyche. The Surgeon was suffering. Suffering through the stages of grief. Denial, wrath, mourning, acceptance. They battered and broke him apart, like a kaleidoscopic gauntlet of emotion. The mess of a man they created was akin to a piece of art, and Malcolm was fascinated by it. He had never seen his father quite so emotional as this. His father wasn't _accustomed_ to feeling emotion. But, oh, when he actually _felt_ something, he felt it with such intensity. 

”You’re overwhelmed,” Malcolm identified, his tone filled with curiosity, awe, and wonder. He took a step forward. “You’re in pain.”

“I am not in pain, I am _angry,”_ Martin corrected with another furious growl. He kept himself facing away from the profiler, but pointed another threatening finger at him. “I am very, _very_ angry, and you would be wise to stay away from me right now, or I _will_ hurt you.”

That brought Malcolm back to his senses. He never expected to hear those words from his father, and he heeded their warning. He remained where he stood, and let the silence between them stretch as Martin stewed in his emotions.

Then, gently, Malcolm genuinely asked, “Would you rather I had no one?”

Martin glared at the midnight asphalt, answering with a fragile calm, “I would rather you had _me.”_

“Well, I didn’t.”

“You could have,” Dr. Whitly whispered, blame and bitterness tainting his voice. His words intended to condemn.

Malcolm narrowed his gaze. “You’re right. I could have.” His firm tone turned the blame and condemnation back onto the person who they belonged to. _Martin._ Not himself. Not Gil.

Martin was in this position because of the choices _he_ had made. _Martin_ had made a deal with The Devil to escape Claremont. It was not Malcolm's fault that he was now bound into Sterling’s servitude and homeless on the streets. It was not _Gil's_ fault _\--or_ Malcolm's-- that he had been imprisoned in Claremont in the first place. _Martin_ was the one who had chosen to kill twenty three people. The only person he had to blame for his loss and his misery was himself. This was _his_ karma coming back to bite him in the ass. This was _his_ due torment and agony. This was a form of justice being served, and Malcolm did not feel sorry for him.

Dr. Whitly continued staring at the road, shoving his fists in his pockets and refusing to look at the profiler. Refusing to accept responsibility for his actions. Malcolm didn't have faith that he ever would.

The consultant took a long breath and reigned in control of his own emotions. “But that’s why we’re both here right now, isn’t it?” he asked, reminding him, “To fix that?” To fix their broken connection. To have a second chance at repairing this relationship. That had been The Surgeon’s primary reason for making that deal with The Devil in the first place, or so he had claimed.

“We _can’t_ fix it, Malcolm.”

The profiler stared at his father, monitoring every twitch of his facial features --every wounded breath he took.

“We can't regain what we’ve _lost,”_ Dr. Whitly decided.

He was giving up.

When Martin was _afraid,_ which was rare --and when he didn't have _control,_ which was also rare, at least in his mind-- he gave up. Malcolm saw that Martin was giving up on him again, like he had when John had taken him. That hurt. But Malcolm tried not to let it show. He couldn't let his father give up. He couldn’t _afford_ to let him give up. He needed to reassure him that he _hadn’t_ lost everything. That he hadn’t lost his _son._

“I think we can,” the profiler argued. “I think it just requires us to accept certain parts of each other. To _forgive_ each other.”

That hooked Martin’s attention. He glanced over at the consultant with a heavily-guarded expression, unwilling to be lured in with any sort of bait, but curious all the same.

“At least, for _some_ things,” Malcolm elaborated. He did not forgive his father for taking the lives of the people he had killed. He would never forgive him for that. But this conversation wasn't about what _couldn’t_ be forgiven. Maintaining custody of his father’s attention, Malcolm continued, “I accept that you’re a narcissist, and a psychopath.” He shrugged. “That’s just how you are. I can forgive you for that.”

Nobody had ever said that to Martin before. He scrutinized the profiler as if he were a stranger --one whom he wasn’t certain if he should believe.

“I accept that you… feel emotions differently than other people,” Malcolm added, glancing down as he took a step off the curb and onto the road, moving slightly closer. “I can forgive you for that,” he nodded.

The Surgeon held the consultant’s gaze as the brave boy approached him.

“I accept that you _see_ the world differently than other people,” Malcolm expressed, taking another step. “That you find beauty and pleasure in terrible, _sinister_ things,” He shrugged again. “And truthfully, I see nothing wrong with that.”

Malcolm was never interested in changing the way his father thought, or felt. He was only interested in changing what he did. Who _didn’t_ possess dark thoughts or lose control of their emotions, from time to time? What mattered was the _actions_ one took when they had those dark thoughts or lost that control. Malcolm could tell that Dr. Whitly was _trying_ to act better, and that Dr. Whitly was making a great effort to keep control over himself. The profiler did not believe those acts and efforts were part of a performance.

Martin studied him, his vexation having been placed on hold as he searched to figure out if _Malcolm_ was the one putting on a performance.

The consultant came to stand in front of him, holding his gaze peacefully, but with a measure of authority. “Can you accept that Gil is a part of my life?” he asked, requesting a reciprocated acceptance. Perhaps it was not so much of a request as it was a demand.

Martin's anger slowly resumed.

“A big part?” Malcolm added with a slight bob of his head. “A part that’s going to stay?”

Martin tore his gaze away and rolled his head to crack his neck.

“Can you forgive him, for that?” Malcolm prompted, emphasizing, “Can you forgive _me?”_

He would only accept one answer to these questions.

Martin gnawed on his lip as a grin spread across his face again. When he looked back at the profiler, his grin remained. “I... _suppose...”_ he nodded with a small squint, as if he were agreeing to play along with a little game of make-believe, “...that I can _try.”_

Detecting his insincerity, Malcolm glared at him with slightly more disappointment than irritation.

Martin flashed the profiler a sarcastic, dagger-filled smile and informed him with a shake of his matted, salt-and peppered locks, “But it’s not going to be easy for me.” The Surgeon then took a calculated step forward, closing the gap between them and placing himself almost chest-to-chest with the profiler. There was no tether buckled around his waist to prevent him from leaning in closer, which is exactly what he did.

Malcolm locked his gaze forward with militant focus, grit his teeth together, and held perfectly still as The Surgeon’s head craned to hover beside his own. He was so close, Malcolm could sense the warmth radiating from his father’s skin. He was so close, Malcolm could feel the humidity of his father’s breath condensing against his ear. He was so close, Malcolm was convinced that his father could hear his pulse drumming through his veins.

With a voice as sweet, harmful, and thick as caramel, Martin slowly whispered, “Because, I know the _reason_ you’re saying all this... is to keep him _safe.”_

Maybe Malcolm was just psyching himself out, but he anticipated injury. He anticipated _pain_ of some sort. The blade from that multi-tool meeting his skin, a grip fastening in his hair, a knee jabbing into his stomach, or all of the above. _Something._ He didn’t know exactly what it would be. He’d never seen his father get physically violent with anyone before, but he felt that _something_ was coming.

The profiler spoke while he still could, and he did so without fear. “You’re right.”

He turned his head to look at his father, but did not move away while doing so. Dr. Whitly had to be the one to pull back to evade the consultant’s breath on his own ear, and he did pull back. However, he remained hovering close enough to stare into the depths of the boy’s eyes as he spoke.

“That is _one_ reason. But that doesn’t make all the other reasons any less true.”

Martin peered into the profiler’s very soul, where he saw something familiar. Something truthful. Something cold and heartless and compassionate all at once. Malcolm’s soul was open, and he welcomed his father to see into it. In turn, he saw the same things in his father’s eyes, beyond the fog of anger that was lying in ambush.

That fog did not disperse.

The Surgeon glanced over the profiler’s face and left his personal space as if reevaluating his plan of attack. Malcolm watched him very carefully as he waited for whatever the serial killer would decide to do next. The Surgeon decided to step past him, and the consultant dropped his gaze at the last second to try to catch a glimpse of the man’s hands. He only saw that they were buried in his pockets.

“I assume the surgery went well?” The Surgeon said from behind the profiler’s back.

Malcolm turned his head as his father reappeared on the opposite side of him. But The Surgeon didn't come all the way around to the front. He changed directions, retracing his steps and slipping out of the profiler’s sight again. A chill trailed across Malcolm’s back, following the crescent-shaped path that The Surgeon traveled. He was half-circling him, like a bloodthirsty predator looking for an opening to lunge for.

The consultant endured the anxiety it gave him. He would be fine as long as he didn't do anything to entice or provoke the monster pacing behind his back. Like move. Or speak. Or breathe.

“Answer me.”

So much for not breathing or speaking. “Yes,” Malcolm murmured softly. “It went well.”

“Of course it did.” The Surgeon appeared on the other side of him and then changed direction again. Malcolm kept his gaze forward, listening to every step his father took and every fidget his father made, using what he heard to gauge the man’s growing aggravation. “Is the cancer going to come back?”

Malcolm took the opportunity to gently shrug his shoulders, forcing the blood to flow through his muscles. “That’s always a possibility.”

In his peripherals, the profiler caught a glimpse of his father nodding, clearly hoping that the cancer would come back. Malcolm also detected a glint of steel. The Surgeon was playing with his multi-tool, turning it over in his hand, flipping it through his fingers, and feeling its weight with small bounces of his upturned palm.

Malcolm turned his eyes forward again, his spine tingling.

“Was your mother there?” The Surgeon asked.

He spoke with such low, quiet loathing that the consultant began to fear for her safety too. Malcolm and Gil weren’t the only ones Dr. Whitly had to forgive. If he knew how close Jessica and Gil were, if he knew that she didn’t just see the lieutenant as a family friend...

“Of _course_ she was,” The Surgeon answered.

Malcolm began to sweat. His father already knew. Sending that photo to him hadn’t helped. The photo that he’d taken after Gil arrived in the hospital, the photo of him and Jessica sitting together on the bed, smiling at each other with her hand on his knee. The profiler closed his eyes and cursed his foolishness.

“And Ainsley?”

_Ainsley._

Malcolm's tension abandoned his body. He took a breath to renew his courage before answering, “No.” Turning over his shoulder to face his father, he explained, “She was at work.”

The Surgeon was fingering the serrated edge of his knife with his thumb, gazing at it as he paced. “Oh.” He flashed a false smile at Malcolm. _“Good.”_

Malcolm dove into the topic of his sister. She was the water necessary to extinguish The Surgeon’s fire. “They’re keeping her at the desk. As the main female anchor, on weekends.”

The Surgeon stopped pacing and looked at the profiler again.

“She’s great,” Malcolm smiled softly at the thought of his sister. “She’s very… factual. And sassy. Sounds like a complete know-it-all on air.”

Dr. Whitly’s gaze trailed off to the side, then returned to his knife. “Well. Takes after her mom,” he muttered.

“And you.”

Dr. Whitly dragged a subtle glare up at the consultant.

“I see you in her sometimes,” Malcolm claimed. 

Martin scoffed incredulously, “Y’ do?”

“I do,” Malcolm nodded. He wasn't just saying that to manipulate him. It was true.

Martin continued to finger the blade in his hand, but he appeared cautiously intrigued. “How so?”

“She’s got your nose,” Malcolm told him. It was easy to recount these details about his sister. He noticed them every single time he looked at her. “Sometimes, your smile.” He failed to stop a smile of his own from spreading across his face as he added, “And she can get _extremely_ upset, _extremely_ quickly.”

Martin chuckled. For the first time that night, there was more humor behind his grin than hatred. He was slowly coming back down to Earth from his storm cloud. Malcolm just needed just a little more help to soothe him, and he knew what would do the trick. The profiler pulled out his smartphone, and with a few swipes and taps of the glowing screen, he filled up the last bucket of water he needed to douse his father’s fire.

“This was her promo.” He held the device out toward Dr. Whitly. The cool blue light of the phone bathed his form, causing the reflective material of his dark windbreaker to subtly gleam.

Martin cast one last glare into the boy’s eyes, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. He was trying to distract him and calm him. But the incentive he used to accomplish those things was nearly irresistible. After a few moments, Martin folded his blade closed with a small _click_ and pocketed the multi-tool. He continued glaring at Malcolm as he returned to him and accepted the phone from the profiler’s outstretched hand.

The video was only fifteen seconds long, but it was chalk-full of Ainsley’s confident smirk, sculpted blonde curls, and kick-ass, go-getter attitude. It was impossible for Martin to stay angry, seeing the way his daughter marched when she walked. The way she popped her hip as she folded her arms. The cerulean colors of the banners that displayed her full name on a sharp, eye-catching graphic. _‘Ainsley Whitly, News Specialist.’_

By the end of it, The Surgeon's eyes had softened. “She’s got her own commercial.” A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he gazed at the tiny treasure that he held in his hands --a sapphire gem glowing up at him. 

“They’ve been running it all week,” Malcolm murmured, mesmerized by his father’s metamorphosis.

Martin hadn’t seen his girl on TV in a long time. The last time he had was when he’d called in to that Carousel Killer newscast, and had generously helped her ratings skyrocket. He was certain that she got this promotion because of him, in some indirect way. His smile swelled along with his ego. And pride. He wanted to tell her ‘congratulations,’ and ‘you’re welcome’ and give her an outpouring of support. But he couldn’t.

After a moment, he asked, “What does she think about all this?” He didn’t mean the promotion. He meant, ‘what does she think about him?’ Being out of prison. Being missing.

Malcolm sighed, and shrugged. “She just wants to know.” Where he was. What he was doing. If he was even alive.

The profiler gave Dr. Whitly a look, reminding him, “But she can’t know.”

Martin tore his eyes off the screen and met Malcolm’s. Perhaps with a splash of sorrow, he nodded in agreement. The consultant held his hand out for the phone. After soaking in the sight of his girl for a few more precious seconds, Martin very reluctantly gave the device back.

While shutting off and pocketing the phone, Malcolm transitioned from the topic of family to the topic of business. “We’re going to a dinner party tomorrow night. She’s reporting on the event and I’m tagging along as her plus one.”

Dr. Whitly squinted. “Like a charity fundraiser?”

“More like some big project reveal. A ton of government officials and businessmen are going to be there,” Malcolm elaborated. “Including Sterling.”

Dr. Whitly sagged his shoulders, tilted his head, and gave him a look. “Malcolm.”

“What?”

“What makes you think that’s a good idea?” Martin criticized. “If you give him _any_ cause for suspicion--”

“I won’t,” Malcolm declared.

Martin shifted his stance and glanced around them before huffing a frustrated breath of disbelief. “You don’t think tracking him down and meeting him at an exclusive party like that is going to arouse suspicion?”

“He’ll be suspicious if I _don’t_ ,” Malcolm argued. “He _expects_ me to chase after him. John sent us into a _bomb,_ for crying out loud. Sterling is expecting me to try to repeal the documents I signed.” But the consultant knew that his efforts would be in vain. He couldn’t take back what he’d done.

“If you use that as a cover, he’s going to see right though it,” Dr. Whitly growled. “He’s dangerous, Malcolm. He can read people, like we can.”

“I can handle this,” Malcolm testified confidently. “I talk to dangerous people all the time,” he gestured at the case-in-point standing in front of him.

Martin pinched a glare at the boy.

“Besides, it won’t be for long. I’m not going to the party because I want to talk to Sterling. I’m going to the party because I want to see who _he_ talks to.” Malcolm’s voice grew more hushed. “I think his target will be in attendance. The person he wants you to kill. I’m certain that it’s someone he knows, someone special. Someone with a status similar to himself.”

Dr. Whitly listened to all this as if he was very bored, and very tired.

“If I can find out _who_ he wants you to kill, then I can save them,” Malcolm urged passionately.

Martin was not enthused. When the profiler didn’t say anything else, he made a face and shrugged. “Okay. What do you want me to say? Good luck?”

Malcolm appeared annoyed. “I want you to tell me what you know about his target.”

“I don’t _know_ anything about his target,” Martin repeated with even greater annoyance.

Malcolm sighed, glanced around them to ensure they were still alone, and asked with some measure of exasperation, “What did Sterling say to you, when he offered you this deal?”

Martin turned his gaze up at the underbelly of the freeway and recalled, “He said… ‘I have a favor to ask you. I need you to _kill somebody_ for me.’” His voice grew more animated and facetious. “‘Would you like to do that?’ And I said, ‘Yes! _Absolutely_. Where do I sign? _’_ ”

Malcolm was not amused by his father’s immature attitude. He was also not amused by the hint of a similarity in his father’s joking answer to Malcolm’s own foolish eagerness to sign whatever documents were necessary to achieve what he wanted. Even the documents releasing another murderer.

“Now, if that is all, I’ll be going,” Dr. Whitly announced. He was clearly still feeling resentful and pissed off. But at least he was only grumpy, instead of furious.

Malcolm watched his father turn his back and leave.

It felt wrong. It made the profiler feel sick. It made his heart flutter inside his chest and it ushered a chill through his bones. _Malcolm_ had always been the one to come and go, never Martin. Malcolm couldn't remember the last time his father had _voluntarily_ walked away from him and ended their time together. The closest occasion was perhaps the night of his arrest, when he’d been led away in cuffs twenty years ago, but Martin hadn’t _wanted_ to walk away from his son that evening.

 _This_ evening, he had. That terrified the consultant more than anything else.

“Dad.”

 _“What?”_ Martin snapped, turning around. He continued his departure during their conversation, stepping backwards with a sluggish, lackadaisical stride.

 _“Where_ are you going?” Malcolm asked crossly, demanding a specific answer.

Dr. Whitly shrugged and released a small, bitter laugh. “Home.” It was a joke. He wasn't going ‘home.’ He didn’t _have_ a home, not anymore. Not Gramercy, not Claremont.

“Where _is_ ‘home?’” Malcolm interrogated. “Where the _hell_ are you living? _Sleeping?”_

“Wherever I want!” Martin called, his voice ringing triumphantly through the urban cavern.

Malcolm rolled his eyes and massaged his temples. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s _fun,”_ Martin grinned, watching the profiler pace back and forth in front of his car. “It’s like camping. Only, in the city. With no tent. And with rapists instead of raccoons.” He canted his head and mentioned, “Though, I _did_ come across a raccoon last night.”

Malcolm stopped pacing to shake his head and spread his hands through the air like dull butter knives. “I don't like that.”

Dr. Whitly stopped walking backwards, intrigued. “Why not?”

“Because you’re going to get _murdered_ if you sleep on the streets,” Malcolm growled.

“That’d be ironic, wouldn’t it?” Dr. Whitly smirked. “It’ll probably happen, too. I'm not allowed the basic human right to defend myself, remember?”

Malcolm glared at him with a look that could kill all on its own.

“I know, son, I don't like it either,” Martin crafted an expression of false empathy. “But I’ve gotta do what I've gotta do,” he ho-hummed. “Given... the constraints...” he drawled, dropping his mask for a moment.

Malcolm continued to seethe, knowing exactly what his father was doing. He was giving the profiler an opportunity to amend his rules.

He wasn't going to amend them.

The Surgeon made a face, conveying, ‘So be it.’ He turned his back again, and trudged away. His stride was much more direct and focused, now. He had no reason to linger.

Malcolm felt a tremor quake through his hands. He closed them into fists and took a few recovering breaths before calling, “What if I _lose_ y--” He stopped, and fixed his wording. “Lose _track,_ of you?”

Dr. Whitly turned around to listen as the profiler called, “What if your phone dies again, or gets stolen, or what if…?” The boy’s voice trailed off.

“Those are always _risks,_ I suppose,” Martin admitted. He assured, “I’ll be _fine,_ son,” and scrunched his nose as he smiled, _“Probably.”_

Then The Surgeon flipped up his hood, becoming a stranger on the street.

Malcolm watched the figure walk away, following the same path he took earlier, until he rounded the corner. The figure disappeared from view, leaving only the lonely, silent, darkness of the night to keep the profiler company.

The night didn’t stay that way for long.

The scream of rubber tires echoed through the air. Headlights painted the concrete wall in a wide wash of warmth, also passing over the figure’s hooded form. Martin jumped as the sedan squealed to a halt on the road beside him, its passenger window rolled down.

“Get in the car.”

Martin warily glanced over the vehicle, and over the driver’s face. “Why?”

“Because I’m not going to meet with you again unless you take a goddamn shower,” Malcolm ordered.

At the promise of a shower, Martin smiled, and got in the car.


	13. Chapter 13

“My boy,” Martin crooned as he claimed a seat beside the profiler. “All grown up and giving his old man a lift. What a wonderful surprise!”

After the passenger door shut, Malcolm commanded, “Seat belt.”

Dr. Whitly glanced behind his shoulder and pulled the strap over his chest, smirking, “That’s right, safety first!” Just like he and Jessica had taught him.

It was an ironic joke, and they both knew it. Safety was rarely first on Malcolm's mind.

Especially tonight.

As soon as the buckle _clicked,_ Malcolm floored the gas pedal, and the sedan lurched into motion once again. As the speedometer jumped, the force of the vehicle plastered Dr. Whitly against his seat. He braced his arm against the door as Malcolm swung into a turn that was sharp enough to cause the car to swerve. It seemed that Malcolm was determined to make his father regret getting in that car with him.

With an uneasy chuckle, Martin adjusted himself to sit more upright and asked, “Woah there, what’s the hurry?” Dr. Whitly eyed the profiler as they zipped through a few intersections whose lights were fortunately green. Malcolm’s teeth were clenched beneath his stone-cold expression, his glare piercing forward. The boy was clearly not in the mood for jokes. 

Malcolm yanked the steering wheel and threw the sedan into another squealing turn. Dr. Whitly braced himself against the door again, his scarred heart drumming in his chest. It was as if Malcolm was street racing against an invisible opponent. While it was quite a thrill, it was also quite unnerving. Dr. Whitly had made the mistake of assuming that they were going to share a nice, _enjoyable_ ride together, but that clearly was not what the profiler had in mind for the occasion.

After another uneasy laugh, Martin cocked his head and forced a grin across his face, acknowledging the elephant in the car. “Alright. You’re driving angry.” He tugged his seat belt tighter across his chest and glanced out the window at the dark scenery that whipped past them, muttering, “Not the _best_ way to drive.”

Dr. Whitly tensed like a spooked cat as the sedan suddenly barreled through the reasonably-sized parking lot of the graffiti-blessed church. There, Malcolm sent them into another turn, but this time, he employed the emergency brake to pivot them into a jarring spiral.

_“Malcolm!”_

Their tires screamed against the pavement, echoing loudly through the surrounding streets. The profiler abruptly reversed the direction of their spiral and it was all Dr. Whitly could do to keep himself from toppling over, gripping onto the door for dear life. Malcolm continued to perform donuts for a few moments of terror, narrowly dodging light poles as he weaved between them.

 _“Maaaalcoooolm!!”_ Dr. Whitly yelled. _“I’m gonna be sick!”_

With a powerful kick and a vicious snarl of the engine, the sedan straightened out, giving them both whiplash. The car shot out of the parking lot like a bullet, leaving a trail of charred rubber in its wake as if an oversized child had scribbled across the lot with a black crayon.

 _“Malcolm,_ I just had _surgery!”_ Dr. Whitly cried angrily, still clutching onto whatever he could to steady himself amidst his son’s unpredictable maneuvers. “The myocardium takes _weeks_ to heal, _you’re gonna give me a heart attack!”_

 _“Good!”_ Malcolm cried back with equal anger. He swung around a corner of an intersection, completely oblivious to its four-way stop signs. The sedan roared in protestation as he smashed the gas pedal under his heel, encouraging the speedometer to rise like the second hand of a clock.

“What about the _shower?!”_ Martin wailed, now worried that it had only been a lie to lure him into this deathtrap on wheels.

A series of red lights flashed ahead of them, blinking alternatively and causing the reflective stripes of a pair of mechanical arms to glow as they lowered.

Malcolm ignored them, and did not slow down.

Dr. Whitly glanced from the railroad crossing to the profiler’s stern expression. “Malcolm,” he uttered his name in a warning tone. Malcolm ignored it. “Malcolm, you have to stop, there's a train.”

“I’m not gonna stop,” Malcolm grumbled stubbornly.

Martin’s glances between his son’s face and the obstacle ahead grew more frequent. “You _have_ to, Malcolm it’s--”

Malcolm gripped the steering wheel more tightly, shaking his head. “Nope. Not stopping.” 

_“Malcolm!”_ Dr. Whitly hissed. “Are you _insane?_ You’re gonna get us _killed!”_

For the first time during that car ride, Malcolm directed his attention towards his father. “Does it look like I care?”

No. It certainly did not.

Dr. Whitly shrunk away from his son’s murderous expression and nervously glanced at the fast-approaching railroad tracks. The boy was bluffing, he thought. He _had_ to be.

Malcolm was not bluffing in the slightest.

He directed the speeding sedan toward a patch of dirt outside of the railroad arms, where there was a gap in the barrier just wide enough for a car to pass through. The approaching train honked twice to claim its right of way. The churning of its iron wheels and the rapid puffing of its lungs dominated the otherwise vacant night air. It was a monstrous machine, and it looked very, very intimidating as it curled around the corner, slipping into view.

“Stop,” Dr. Whitly asked quietly, then ordered with more force behind his panicked words, “ _Stop,_ Malcolm, stop.”

Malcolm did not stop. Neither did the massive train.

Dr. Whitly glanced at the profiler’s emergency brake, then snarled a fierce, “ _I said STOP!”_ as he lunged to grab it.

Malcolm snatched his wrist, and Martin struggled desperately to free it. The profiler used his arm to bar his father away from the controls of the vehicle --all while holding the steering wheel steady with his other hand. The sedan slid off-road, into the dirt. During their jostled scuffle, the car continued to charge forward. The train’s single yet powerful headlight filled the car with a holy wash of white as if preparing them for the afterlife they would soon face. The locomotive bellowed a long, deep, deafening sound that drowned out Dr. Whitly’s shout.

_“MALCOLM!”_

The sedan met the first set of tracks with a violent bump that sent it into a small jump. Martin was slammed back against his seat, where he sucked in a breath and winced as he prepared for a worse impact. The sedan skipped through the air like a stone, missing the other tracks and sparing its tires from any more abuse. It roughly landed on the other side of the patch of dirt with a grinding of dust and gravel.

The menacing grate at the front of the train nearly struck their rear bumper.

As the momentum of the car carried them away from the danger, Malcolm caught his breath with a loud cry of disbelief that manifested in the form of laughter. He glanced in his rear view mirror and he wrangled the sedan back onto the road. The locomotive behind them continued to blare its horn as if cursing their escape and vowing that it would get them next time.

Martin also whirled around to watch the train pass behind them, recovering his wits in the form of shocked gasps. _“Christ,_ son, _who taught you how to drive!?”_ Dr. Whitly asked, bristling as he shouted.

Malcolm continued to laugh with something close to madness. His shoulders bounced, his smile stretched broadly across his face, and as his eyes started to tear up. Dr. Whitly caught the contagious disease and began to grin, unable to hold back a few breaths of his own misplaced laughter which escaped from his terrified core. Soon, they both celebrated their daring victory with relentless giggles of danger-born delirium.

Exhausted from the expenditure of their adrenaline and anger, they relaxed in their seats as their laughter calmed.

The speedometer calmed along with them.

As their heart rates and oxygen intakes settled, Martin smiled out the window at the passing industrial landscape around them. But then, his grin fell. He looked over at the profiler.

“No, really. Who taught you how to drive?” Martin asked, fearing he knew the answer. 

Malcolm’s grin also faded away.

A silence stretched between them, feeling drastically out of place compared to the cacophonous hysteria they’d just experienced.

Dr. Whitly tried to hold onto what remained of his weak smile. “I know it wasn't your _mother._ She’s terrible behind the wheel.” He chuckled feebly. “I mean, _worse_ than that.”

Malcolm stared ahead, swallowed, and kept his mouth shut. He adjusted his hands around the wheel, gripping it this time not with anger, but with a different emotion. Dr. Whitly waited, but he soon discarded his timid smile and turned his own attention forward, at the next traffic light.

It was yellow.

Malcolm slowed and came to a gentle stop as it blinked red.

They sat together, quietly staring at the vast nothingness in front of them. It felt as if an equally vast nothingness lied between them as well. Like a gaping wound. 

There was no abandoned playground to look at this time. No memories to watch. No unexpected beauty to be found in a rain-soaked park. Just a glowing red light amidst the darkness. One that ordered them to stop.

This time, Malcolm obeyed.

The traffic light remained red, though theirs was the only vehicle in sight. Once again, it felt as if they were the only two people in an empty, shadow-filled world. It seemed that the light was waiting. It seemed that it wouldn’t allow them to continue moving forward together unless they ended their silence, and mended that vast wound between each other.

“It was Gil,” Malcolm finally answered.

Dr. Whitly had assumed as much. He looked down at his hands, where he found a couple of scratches on his wrist where his son’s nails had haphazardly drawn a pair of red lines over his skin, and admired the minor scrapes absent-mindedly.

Malcolm’s voice was hoarse and low. “Gil taught me… how to drive.”

Maybe something in his voice tainted it with more of a sad quality than a tired one. Maybe underneath all of the immeasurable pride he felt about the memories he shared with Gil, he also felt some measure of regret. Maybe Malcolm wished that it could have been his father in the passenger seat, back when the profiler was sixteen and unfamiliar with all of the dials and levers in front of him. Maybe he could have learned how to drive in their ugly old station wagon, instead of in a sleek police cruiser. Maybe he could have taken his first drive up in the mountains, during a rust-colored sunset, instead of down by the marina, during a blue-misted morning.

He _could_ have, if his father had made different choices.

After a few more agonizingly long seconds, Dr. Whitly inhaled a large sigh and lifted his head to glance around at the dimly-lit corner. “Well. He did a _fantastic_ job.”

Malcolm hesitated to look over at him. When he did, Martin returned the look.

The profiler couldn’t identify exactly what lied behind his father’s words. Sadness, or sarcasm, or perhaps a hint of honesty. Maybe some mixture of all three. As the two of them stared at each other, Malcolm dared to believe that there was something else lying underneath there too. Something that Martin would never allow anyone to witness. Anyone except, perhaps, his son.

Something akin to acceptance, and forgiveness.

The red glow on the sides of their faces turned green, and they looked up at the traffic light, which now permitted them to move forward.

Together.

* * *

As they came to the outer edge of a commercial zone, Malcolm mercifully kept the speedometer at a legal level. He pulled out onto a populated road that served as a main vein of traffic, one that a large handful of cars traveled along.

“Keep your head down, and your hood up,” the profiler instructed.

Dr. Whitly obediently tugged his hood forward and slouched in his seat, avoiding looking directly out the window as he rested his arm on the edge of the door.

They passed a slew of strip malls, easy loan centers, used car dealerships, and countless family-owned Mexican restaurants that staked a claim on nearly every corner. Here, more sharps container bins were scattered along the sidewalks, serving as water coolers for the addicted denizens of Jamestown. Groups of shady folk who wore too baggy of pants (and rarely a well-fitted shirt) strut along the sidewalks and barked at each other like territorial animals.

There was a hot dog shop that was clearly closed, yet somehow thriving with patrons --half of which were dolled-up women all smoking cigarettes as they chatted with strangers. Malcolm passed his scrutinous gaze over every little red flag and minor crime he saw, and chose to ignore it all, searching instead for something else.

Something that was more important than work.

“You didn’t use your turn signal, just now, did you know that?” Dr. Whitly pointed out from beneath his hood.

Malcolm tossed him a curious look, and scoffed, “After all _that,_ you’re nitpicking the _turn signal?”_

Dr. Whitly argued, “You don’t wanna be one of _those_ assholes who don’t use their turn signal, son.”

Malcolm blinked slowly and shook his head. That was rich, coming from a serial killer.

“Where are you taking me?” the serial killer asked, taking a peek out the window at their environment.

“Where do you think I’m taking you?”

Martin truly didn’t know. “Disneyworld?” he joked.

Malcolm shook his head.

Martin stared at the boy from under his simple disguise, and asked again, “Where are you taking me, Malcolm?” The humor had left his tone.

Malcolm sighed and cocked his head, delivering a vague answer that promised misfortune. “You’re not going to like it.”

Dr. Whitly studied the profiler, then snickered. “Well, as long as it’s not _jail...”_ he trailed off, giving the boy an opportunity to pitch in and confirm that it was _not_ jail.

Malcolm didn’t take that opportunity.

“Malcolm?” Dr. Whitly prompted nervously.

The profiler gave him a look, lifting his brows. “Better than the street, isn’t it?”

His father glared at him. “Not funny.” Malcolm turned his attention back to the road, but his heartless, unsympathetic expression did not change. “Malcolm, that’s _not_ funny,” Martin growled, growing concerned.

“It’s perfect,” Malcolm claimed. “You’d have someone watching you every second of every day, you wouldn’t be able to leave, there are showers, there's a bed. There's probably even a toilet, how great is that?” He glanced over at Dr. Whitly, who was still glowering at him.

“You’re not taking me to jail,” Martin identified grumpily, unappreciative of the boy’s mockery. 

“I could see you anytime I wanted. I’d know exactly where you are,” Malcolm continued reading off his invisible list.

“It sounds to _me..._ like you _miss_ me,” Dr. Whitly accused with a lazy purr of his voice. He wore a smug smirk as Malcolm glanced over at him with a hint of alarm and defensiveness.

With a small squint and a nod, Martin graciously clarified, “Being in Claremont, I mean.”

The profiler focused on the road, doing poorly to recover from and conceal his flash of emotion. But before long, he quietly admitted, “I do.” The profiler kept his attention on the road and continued to search for whatever it was he was searching for. “Sometimes." Malcolm didn’t clarify his statement, nor attribute it solely to Claremont.

Dr. Whitly hummed contentedly, aiming a triumphant grin out of his window. “Not so stubborn after all.”

Malcolm shook his head, inwardly cursing himself for falling victim to letting his guard down and _‘having a moment’_ with the man.

Dr. Whitly gazed at the boy for a short while, infatuated and complacent. Breaking the spell of their little ‘moment,’ he glanced out the window again and mentioned, “I _do_ have work in the morning. So I’d like to stay a _little_ close to this area. Even if it is the bottom of the barrel.”

Malcolm found what he was searching for. “Is this close enough?” he asked as he turned into a parking lot, again not using his turn signal.

Martin didn’t notice. He was staring at their destination. Glancing between it and his son, he furrowed his brow. “Malcolm... a _motel?”_

The profiler parked the sedan and unbuckled his seat belt. “Wait in the car,” he ordered. “Don’t let anyone see you.” The boy left, locking the vehicle behind him with a press of his special electronic key fob. As he disappeared into the main office, Dr. Whitly remained in the passenger seat, stunned.

* * *

Malcolm purchased a room --not just for the night, but for the next two weeks.

The room was exactly what one would expect a shitty motel room to look like. It was nearly as small as a broom closet, but it made some effort to appear inviting --at least to the drug addicts and prostitutes that undoubtedly served as frequent patrons of the roadside hotel. The door handle had to be twisted in a particular way before the key even had a chance in hell of working. The dusty glass panels of the window were covered by smoke-stained blinds and curtains from the sixties. Two beds faced a blank wall that was empty save for a mounted television and some suspicious looking holes that had been patched over with mismatching paint. The television was not mounted in any sort of attempt to make the room appear nice or updated. It was solely because there was no space for it to go on a table between the wall and the ends of the beds. 

A single nightstand separated the two beds, whose covers looked frightfully aged and well-used. There was a cramped bathroom in the back, located beside an equally small space that was designated as a ‘dining area’ by a plastic folding table and two wooden chairs. The very same space could also be designated as a ‘kitchen’ --which had everything one would need in a kitchen _if_ one’s diet consisted solely of popcorn and beer, since it only consisted of a mini fridge with a microwave on top of it. There were no counter tops, cupboards, or any other appliances. The only sink in the motel room was the bathroom sink, and its porcelain was more yellow than white.

There were stains in the carpet, splotches of discoloration in the corners of the walls, and a lingering smell of something Malcolm didn't want to identify. It wasn't The Plaza Hotel by any stretch of the imagination, but it was far better than the gutter. Even if not by much.

“There’s a bus stop on the corner,” Malcolm announced, tossing a pamphlet filled with public transit information on one of the beds as he confidently strode into the room, followed by a less confident Dr. Whitly. “There's a fridge, a microwave, outlets,” the profiler gestured, taking a brief survey of the room and pointing out each amenity. “And of course, a shower! Please use it,” he asked, sticking his hands in his coat pockets.

Dr. Whitly lowered his hood and warily took it all in, unconvinced that any of it was tangible. The bulky, corded phone on the nightstand looked just like the ones he remembered from the eighties. It was quite a nostalgia trip. And those queen-sized beds... He hadn’t set his sights on a bed that large in ages. A _real_ bed, not a cot. He hesitated to touch the corner of the one nearest to him. His hesitation was not due to its questionable cleanliness.

There were many reasons for his speechlessness.

“Oh, look at that. You even have a Roku,” Malcolm noticed.

“What’s a Roku?” Dr. Whitly muttered, following his son’s gaze to a remote on the nightstand, then the television.

“You’ll figure it out,” Malcolm assured with a knowing smirk, perfectly able to picture his father testing out the new technology with calculated guesses and exceedingly firm pushes of the buttons.

Holding out a silver key, the profiler told him, “This is yours. I recommend putting it on a lanyard.”

Dr. Whitly was slow to hold his hand out to accept it, as if he feared it would explode the instant it touched the skin of his palm. When it did touch his skin, and no explosion happened, he smiled distantly. “I can’t remember the last time someone gave me a key.” A key to his own residence. A key that he could use at his discretion to come and go at his leisure. Something for him to use to keep _others out,_ instead of for others to use to keep _him in._

“Well, you have one now,” Malcolm murmured, placing his hands in his pockets as he watched his father admire the silver trinket. “Don’t lose it.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Dr. Whitly chuckled. “Don’t you worry about that.”

The profiler glanced between his father’s expression and that key. It was clearly precious to him. Malcolm wondered if it was more precious to him than his Nokia, but decided not to dwell on that suspicion. He slipped past his father in the crowded space to head for the door. “Goodnight.”

Dr. Whitly let him pass, still caught in a daze. Then he snapped out of it enough to turn around and ask, “Malcolm, why are you doing this?”

Malcolm stopped to shrug, “So I... can easily reach you?”

Dr. Whitly appeared as if he didn’t believe that to be an honest answer.

“So I don’t lose track of you,” Malcolm added, going back to his mental list. “So you have _no_ _excuse_ not to answer my calls and texts,” he pointed at an outlet by the nightstand. There was a sense of _ownership_ in his words. Like Dr. Whitly belonged to him. Like it was unacceptable for him to _not_ be within arm’s reach, or _not_ to be at his beck and call at all times.

Dr. Whitly smiled, hearing something very familiar in Malcolm’s tone. It seemed that they were each the other’s most cherished possession.

Malcolm lifted a finger, warning him, “Don’t make me regret doing this.”

Dr. Whitly donned teasing grin, impishly replying, “No promises.”

Malcolm’s reaction was that of a sigh.

Dr. Whitly spoke through his grin with a small nod, warranting, “But I will try not to.”

Malcolm supposed that was all he could ask for. “Until tomorrow, Dr. Whitly,” he concluded, re-equipping a sense of formality as a shield that he felt the need to hide behind --to protect himself from exposing his heart to his father. He recognized that he was lowering that shield more and more with each passing day that they met with each other. He’d never lowered it so much as he had lowered it tonight.

“Goodnight, son,” Martin continued grinning as the profiler left. The door locked with a jostle of an external key, loudly announcing that Malcolm had kept the spare. They each had an identical copy of a pair, like their cell phones.

Dr. Whitly glanced down at the duplicate key in his hand --his newest treasure. He couldn’t help but think of all the opportunities which that little key unlocked.

Opportunities that he was certainly going to take advantage of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, guess this is a two-part sequel now. The next part is 'Absolution,' here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029925
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this fic! If you'd like to check out my other Prodigal Son fics, visit this page: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/works?fandom_id=31672270
> 
> Feel free to comment if you'd like to. I love receiving comments and interacting with readers.
> 
> If you'd like to be notified when I post new works, you can subscribe to me as an author on my profile! If you wanna follow my Prodigal Son tumblr blog, the link is here. https://theresnosuchthingasmonsters.tumblr.com/ It's full of gifs and analyses and inspiration and notes and references --and it's where I interact with followers the most consistently. The best part; you can submit writing prompts for short drabbles!


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